Guided by light, driven by dreams, and ready to fly.

Tag: funny comics

  • The Day I Lost Because I Sneeze 😭🐾🐶

    Susan narrating

    I’ve been worried sick about Oishi.

    He hasn’t been judgmental and distant like he normally is.

    Instead, he’s clingy.

    Paranoid.

    He’s been asking Anghelito and Angelusito to close all the curtains like we’re hiding from the FBI.

    One night I almost broke my neck because he turned off all the lights and left a squeaky toy in the hallway.

    He’s been staying in his dog bed — which he rarely uses — and avoiding the couch.

    He used to sleep on my bed like he pays rent.

    Now?

    He crawls under the sofa when I grab his leash.

    And that’s when I knew.

    Something is wrong.

    Maybe he’s depressed.

    Nah.

    That smug little Shih Tzu has no emotions.

    Right?

    Oishi narrating

    I do have emotions.

    Unfortunately.

    Listen.

    Last Saturday, Sus and I were walking at the park. That’s our thing.

    She walks.

    I supervise.

    She enjoys the “eating after walking” part more, but that’s beside the point.

    She left me for five minutes to buy milk tea.

    Five.

    Minutes.

    And that’s when it happened.

    I bumped into a furry creature.

    I looked up.

    A cat.

    My heart tried to exit my chest.

    But I reminded myself:

    Calm down. I have a cat friend. Fippo. He’s decent.

    This one could be decent too.

    I mean… look at me.

    Good hair.

    Strong stance.

    Naturally charming.

    I was about to greet him.

    He crossed his arms.

    Oh.

    So we’re doing this.

    A staring contest.

    I always win against Susan.

    I will not fold.

    The sun was high.

    People started gathering.

    Someone said, “I’ll bet on the cat. The dog looks soft.”

    Soft?!

    Me?!

    The audacity.

    Then I heard Susan from a distance:

    “GO BADOODLE! CLAP CLAP! GO!”

    Like she was auditioning for Dancing with the Stars.

    I was sweating.

    My leg was itching.

    The crowd was cheering.

    The cat never blinked.

    But I saw it.

    He was struggling.

    This was my moment.

    I inhaled deeply—

    And inhaled dander.

    “Achoo!”

    “Achoo!”

    And that was it.

    The crowd erupted.

    The cat lifted his paw.

    Champion.

    For those who didn’t know…

    I lost because I sneezed.

    Susan picked me up like the baby that I am and kissed my forehead.

    “It’s okay, badoodle. You’re still my champ.”

    But I didn’t feel like a champ.

    I felt small.

    So no, Susan.

    I wasn’t depressed.

    I was ashamed.

    Ashamed I lost.

    Ashamed I folded.

    Ashamed I cared.

    I started hiding.

    Closing curtains.

    Avoiding the park.

    Is this what losing feels like?

    I didn’t know what to do.

    So obviously—

    I asked the angels.

    Who asks Susan for advice?

    She means well, but she would say:

    “Suck it up and stop being dramatic.”

    I told Anghelito and Angelusito everything.

    “I think I have emotions now,” I said.

    “I feel angry at myself. I feel ashamed. I keep replaying the sneeze.”

    Anghelito nodded.

    “It is natural to feel disappointment when you lose,” he said.

    “But shame does not belong there.”

    “Even professionals lose — but they don’t let one moment decide who they are.”

    Angelusito added.

    Even then, they said, athletes feel it too.

    But they don’t tie their identity to it.

    “So what do they do?” I asked.

    “They practice,” Anghelito said.

    “If Michael Jordan stayed home and closed his curtains every time he lost, would he become the greatest?”

    No.

    He practiced.

    He improved.

    He tried again.

    “So I shouldn’t give up?”

    “In games? Practice and try again,” Angelusito said.

    “But give up your ego.”

    That one hurt.

    “If I had just walked away,” I whispered, “this wouldn’t have happened.”

    They both came closer.

    “For petty pride battles,” they said gently,

    “Turn the other cheek.”

    If you’re not being bullied.

    If you’re not being harmed.

    You don’t have to prove yourself.

    Not every challenge deserves your identity.

    “So what did I learn?” I asked.

    Three things:

    • Turn the other cheek.

    • Do not engage in pettiness.

    • Never give up on things worth improving — but drop your ego.

    They touched my head.

    It felt peaceful.

    I was about to deliver a dramatic monologue—

    When we heard sirens.

    An ambulance.

    Outside our house.

    Susan burst in.

    “OISHIIII! OISHIIII!”

    She grabbed the medic and shouted:

    “My dog is depressed. Cure him!”

    Paw to forehead.

    Classic Sus.

    The End.

    Still Rising.

    Still Barking.

  • Jesus said NOPE… I quit anyway

    A burnout comedy about quitting, bills, and God’s very calm “no.”

    Oishi narrates, reluctantly.

    So my dear readers, I have shocking news.

    Susan… has been working hard.

    Yes. Hard. Like “new personality unlocked” hard.

    She leaves early. Comes home late. She prepares my food like she’s deploying overseas. She kisses my head like she’s going to war. Ma’am, you are going to work. Not Mordor.

    For three months, this was our routine:

    She drops kibble. She says, “No chicken today, Oishi. It spoils when you leave it on the plate and I’m not home.”

    And I’m like… HELLO??? Chicken does not “spoil” on my plate. Chicken does not even survive two minutes on my plate.

    But anyway. That’s what she kept saying while she ran around muttering about her “KPI.” I don’t know what that is, but based on how she suffers, it sounds like a disease.

    The part where Susan explains what happened (and blames everyone but herself)

    Susan (narrating, rubbing her temples):

    Okay. Fine. Yes. I’ve been working hard.

    Because last quarter… I missed my KPI. And yes… it was my fault.

    I didn’t perform well because I was “preparing for Christmas.”

    And when I say preparing, I mean:

    binge-watching, eating chips, making holiday plans three months early, and acting like December is a full-time job.

    So now, I’m paying for it. My boss, Henson, told me if I don’t pull my performance up, he’ll axe me. And he said it will make him happy because apparently I’m “a melodramatic, overreacting hurricane pain in the—”

    Okay. He didn’t say the last word. But his eyes did.

    Also, I was working hard because of Oishi.

    So I can buy him food and cute bandanas. That smug little shih tzu wants chicken every day like he pays rent.

    So I told myself, “Susan, you will not give up. You will act like a good employee.”

    Which is why… I did what every responsible employee does.

    I tried to bribe my manager.

    I bought Henson the juiciest, most glorious four-patty burger with jalapeño cheese melt. Honestly, I could’ve offered siopao, but he’s the type who says “I don’t do carbs” while chewing on stress.

    I offered the burger and smiled like an innocent angel.

    He stared at it like it was poison.

    He refused it.

    REFUSED.

    Who refuses that burger? It had purpose. It had destiny. It had jalapeño.

    Instead, he marched me straight to HR, Horatio T.

    Horatio did what Horatio does best: stayed calm, wrote a memo, and told me if I don’t fix my performance and my attitude, I’m out.

    So I walked back to my desk confused, offended, and extremely dramatic… and then my heart jumped because…

    He was there.

    Jesus.

    And I was ready.

    I told Him everything. Every unfair thing. Every rude customer. Every pressure. Every injustice. I even included the burger tragedy.

    Then I said, “Lord… I’m tired. I want to quit.”

    Jesus lifted His hand.

    I gasped because deep inside, I was thinking:

    If He says yes, nobody can stop me. Not my boss. Not HR. Not even the economy.

    And then Jesus said:

    “Nope.”

    The part where Susan does what Susan does

    Oishi (narrating):

    After Jesus said “Nope,” you can guess what Susan did.

    She quit anyway.

    She came home acting like she was a victim of corporate oppression, as if I didn’t witness the last quarter where she said, and I quote:

    “Badoodle, it’s holiday month. Christmas is coming. I don’t need to work on those reports.”

    Apparently the company did need those reports.

    And apparently reports do not magically submit themselves because Christmas lights are blinking.

    Anyway.

    She barged into HR with conviction.

    Imagine Susan storming in like she’s in a courtroom drama, waving her resignation letter like Exhibit A.

    Horatio looked at her like a man watching a toddler carry a candle near curtains.

    He calmly said we have practical obligations in life and she should think about it.

    Susan crossed her arms. Inhaled deeply. Like she was about to deliver a monologue.

    Then she exhaled and said, “I QUIT.”

    Paw to forehead. Classic Susan.

    The part where Susan enters her “freedom era” (Delulu Phase)

    Susan (narrating, glowing with delusion):

    After I resigned, I felt relieved.

    No more waking up early. No more rude customers. No more reports. No more cases to monitor.

    Last week I even saw a white hair. WHITE. HAIR.

    That’s when I knew my job was trying to assassinate me.

    So I woke up slow. Took a shower. Scooped Oishi. Went to the park. Ate ice cream. Bought Oishi a cute red bandana with paw prints. Small splurge. Just a little.

    And I told myself, “I can find a job quickly. I’m a talented woman.”

    Also… I swear my white hair turned black again.

    The part where reality enters like a bill collector with no mercy

    Oishi (narrating, ears hurting):

    Four weeks later, reality slapped Susan with a receipt.

    She splurged. Yes. Like she was sponsored by denial.

    Our three-week routine was: park, shopping, binge-watch.

    She bought me a gallon of dog cologne. She bought Tupperware she didn’t need. She bought running shoes she never used.

    She said, “I need new shoes so I can get motivated and finally look like a supermodel.”

    Ma’am. Supermodels do not reward a jog with chips and cake.

    Then one day, the living room looked like an elementary school classroom. Papers everywhere. Chips on the floor. Cocoa spilled. Susan sobbing.

    And she said:

    “Oishi… how am I going to pay for all this? I will sell my blood. It’s worth something, right?”

    I stared at her.

    I blinked slowly.

    And I realized she was not joking.

    Later that night, I saw her praying. Not the dramatic kind. The real kind.

    Susan (praying):

    “Jesus… I didn’t listen. I don’t know how I’ll pay for bills, rent… food… I just wanted a break.”

    The angels arrive (one gentle, one tired)

    A bright glow appeared, and Angelusito floated in, chubby and kind.

    Behind him was Anghelito, who looked like he hasn’t rested since Genesis.

    Angelusito: “Susan, He heard you. He asked you to meet Him at the park. At the swing.”

    Susan: “At night?? Can He come here?”

    Anghelito: “Sure, let’s make the King of Kings travel like a Grab rider. Just go.”

    Angelusito: “Susan, you’re healthy and safe. You can walk.”

    Anghelito: “Also, you begged to see Him five minutes ago.”

    Rude. Accurate.

    So we went.

    The swing scene (heartwarming, not cheesy)

    The park was quiet. Peaceful. Jesus was sitting on the swing, smiling gently.

    I heard a bark. I turned.

    Oishi followed us, tongue out, panting like he ran a marathon, but emotionally he was thriving.

    I stood there like a five-year-old who broke something and suddenly remembered consequences exist.

    Susan:

    “Lord… I’m sorry. I didn’t listen. I don’t know how to pay the bills. I’m ashamed to ask my mom. I’m ashamed to borrow from friends. I was just tired. I wanted a break.”

    Jesus looked at her like a Father who already knows the whole story, and still chose to come.

    Jesus: “Why did you quit?”

    Susan: “I was tired, Lord. The work piled up. Customers were rude. I snapped.”

    Jesus (gentle, but direct):

    “The reports piled up because you avoided them. The customers were hard because they needed help. You needed wisdom, not escape.”

    Susan’s lip trembled.

    Jesus continued, calm and practical:

    Jesus: “Tell Me what was good about your job.”

    Susan hesitated, and the angels, of course, did not.

    Anghelito: “Salary. Necessities. Food. Rent. Reality.”

    Oishi barked like: yes.

    Jesus: “And your friends?”

    Susan: “Yes… Brenda and Yohannes. They cheer me up. Pete too. Macchismo… also.”

    She said that last one softer.

    Jesus smiled.

    Jesus: “Would you rather find another job, or return and rebuild what you broke?”

    Susan’s throat tightened because suddenly she remembered:

    it wasn’t all bad. It was hard, yes, but there was laughter too. Friendship. Familiar rhythm. People who cared.

    Susan: “Lord… I already resigned. I was arrogant.”

    Jesus petted Oishi as if He was thinking while scratching a fluffy philosopher.

    Jesus: “Go talk to Horatio again. Own it. Be honest. Make a plan.”

    Susan nodded, crying quietly.

    Susan: “This time… I will listen.”

    Jesus stood, and the night felt lighter.

    The next day: community shows up

    Back home, Brenda and Yohannes came by with dinner. No lectures. Just presence.

    Then Boyo passed by with a bag of rice.

    Susan blinked. “Why do you have rice?”

    Boyo scratched his head. “I’ve been dropping some weekly. Thought you might need it.”

    Susan’s eyes softened. She hugged him properly this time. Not dramatic. Just grateful.

    And for the first time in weeks, her mind felt quiet.

    The angel sermon (shorter, sharper, still funny)

    While Susan washed dishes, the window reflection revealed the angels.

    Susan sighed. “Oh no. A sermon.”

    Angelusito pulled out a notebook like a therapist.

    Anghelito cleared his throat like a tired teacher.

    Anghelito:

    “Susan. Work is overwhelming. People are annoying. True.”

    “But quitting impulsively without a plan? That’s a recipe for future stress.”

    “Rest is allowed. Planning is wisdom.”

    “You were not in danger. You were irritated. There is a difference.”

    “Also, you are literally customer service. Serve the customers.”

    Susan gasped. “Wow.”

    Anghelito nodded. “Yes. Wow.”

    Angelusito smiled gently and added:

    Angelusito:

    “When you work, do it with integrity. Not for people’s approval, but because God sees you.”

    Then Anghelito slapped the final stamp:

    Anghelito:

    “Colossians 3:23–24. Work wholeheartedly.”

    “And Proverbs 21:5. Diligent plans lead to profit. Haste leads to poverty.”

    Susan whispered: “Okay… okay… fine.”

    The return (with one last siopao punchline)

    The next morning, Susan woke up early. Ironed her clothes. Wore decent office attire. Even perfume.

    At the door, Oishi kept pushing her leg like a tiny motivational speaker.

    At the office, Ishmael the prophetic janitor greeted her.

    Ishmael: “Good morning, Susan. We didn’t touch your table.”

    Susan froze. “My table…??”

    Then she remembered: she left a siopao there.

    She whispered, horrified: “No…”

    Ishmael smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, Susan. I threw your siopao.”

    Susan almost cried from relief.

    As she walked in, she saw Brenda on the phone, Yohannes being polite to customers, colleagues moving around like normal life never paused.

    And she realized: this place wasn’t perfect, but she wasn’t alone.

    Before she could knock, Horatio opened the door.

    Susan blurted out, half-joking, half-not:

    Susan: “Hi… can I have my job back? I was being melodramatic. I need to pay rent.”

    Horatio stared at her.

    Then he said, completely calm:

    Horatio: “Took you long enough.”

    Susan blinked. “Wait… you’re accepting me?”

    Horatio sighed. “Susan, I spilled coffee on your resignation letter. I didn’t make a copy.”

    Susan gasped. “You… didn’t file it?”

    Horatio raised an eyebrow. “Also, who resigns with a printed letter? Never heard of email?”

    Susan laughed and cried at the same time.

    She hugged him.

    Horatio stepped back immediately. “Okay. Enough. We don’t need to go there.”

    He simply shook her hand.

    Then she heard a voice behind her:

    Macchismo: “Welcome back, Susan.”

    Susan’s soul left her body for one second.

    Ending

    Back at home, Susan saw a small banner hanging near the kitchen.

    It looked like it was made by angels.

    It said:

    GOD GAVE YOU ANOTHER CHANCE. DO NOT MESS IT UP.

    Susan squinted. “Are angels always this judgmental?”

    Oishi sat beside her, glasses on, bandana straight, expression unreadable.

    They’re annoying… but they helped.

    So they can stay.

    The end.

    Still rising. Still barking.

  • Susan & Oishi: The Signal Co. – Episode 3 – One Donut, One Memo, One Very Nervous Intern

    Narrator:
    Oishi (as if there’s anyone else classy enough for this role)

    As usual, Susan was at work — emotionally caffeinated, philosophically unprepared — and last night she dumped an entire story on me. I must now share it with you, dear reader, so I don’t suffer alone in silence.

    It was Friday — the world’s emotional support day. Busy, but chill.
    The boss lady, Cassandra, had just called in a food order for the staff. She’s not always in the office, but she shows love the best way she knows how: carbs.

    Now Cassandra is so poised, even Jezzie Bell and Dinah get insecure just by breathing in her cologne mist. She walks by, and suddenly everyone’s fixing their posture and pretending their spreadsheets aren’t fanfiction.

    At The SIGNAL Co., gossip is a language. A lifestyle. Possibly an inherited condition.
    It was barely 8:00 AM when Yohanes crashed into the department like a news anchor possessed, shouting,

    “MAKE WAY! I am reporting live from Rome — I have pope-level information.”

    Susan, mid-donut.
    Brenda, the only one actually working, half-listening.
    Yohanes?
    Fully seated on Susan’s desk, wearing the energy of a caffeinated pigeon.

    “There’s a reshuffle coming! Someone’s getting transferred!”
    Gasp — Susan almost drops her donut.
    Gasp — Yohanes inhales like he saw his own funeral.
    Gasp — Brenda doesn’t gasp. She fact-checks.

    And then… Dinah.

    Lurking. Listening. Lurking again.

    She swoops in with that “just sharing, not saying” energy and drops this:

    “I heard it’s Pete from Accounting. Apparently he messed up the company taxes.”

    (No source. No logic. Just Dinah.)

    Let the record show: Pete didn’t mess anything up. He asked Dinah for her tax computations, and she didn’t submit them. So now she’s blaming him for the delay. Classic.

    Susan nearly faints. Yohanes looks ready to call CNN.
    Brenda, still grounded, says:

    “Pete is the spreadsheet. He once calculated his way out of a traffic ticket.”

    Dinah shrugs, throws her hands in the air and goes,

    “Well… maybe he’s getting old. Just saying.”

    Meanwhile, Jasper the intern approaches to give Susan her coffee.
    Unfortunately, Dinah’s hand is involved. A dramatic wrist flourish sends the coffee flying — all over Susan.

    And Dinah?

    “Ugh. Stupid intern. Why didn’t you walk around me?”

    Jasper is mortified. Susan is sticky.
    And Ishmael, the janitor, glides in like a mop-wielding monk.

    “Ma’am,” he says gently to Dinah, “he couldn’t have predicted your… hand choreography.”

    Enter Horatio T.
    HR rep. Memo collector. Passive-aggressive with a soul.

    He bursts from his office and booms:

    “WHAT IN THE NAME OF DATA PRIVACY AND EMOTIONAL DAMAGE IS GOING ON HERE?!”

    Dinah (of course) points at Yohanes:

    “He started spreading gossip about Pete!”

    Yohanes panics. Apologizes. Dinah smiles like a cat that deleted your files.

    But even Horatio — who writes memos for therapy — can see the truth.

    “ENOUGH. If there’s any transfer happening, I’ll be the one to announce it. I am HR. And FYI… no one’s being transferred.”

    Yep. It was Dinah. Making things up. Again.

    Later that day, Susan, Yohanes, and Brenda are whispering at the fire exit, still doing a full debrief. Then they hear two male voices from below.

    One says:

    “‘Do not go about spreading slander among your people. Do not do anything that endangers your neighbor’s life. I am the LORD.’ – Leviticus.”

    Susan gasps:

    “Wait — who’s Leviticus?! Is that Pete’s replacement?”

    Yohanes:

    “Or the new Data Analyst?”

    Brenda rolls her eyes so hard the floor shakes:

    “It’s a book in the Bible. That’s a verse. From the actual Bible Leviticus 19:16 !

    They peek down and see… Ishmael.
    Quietly chatting with Horatio, who — surprisingly — sometimes seeks Ishmael’s advice.

    Turns out, the janitor isn’t just wise. He’s scripturally sharp.
    Horatio had asked how to handle gossip. And Ishmael simply quoted the truth.

     

    📄 MEMO from Horatio T. – Subject: Defamation of Character (aka Gossip Ends Here)

    To all employees (even if you’re morally bankrupt):

    Gossip is part of our survival strategy in the office. Without it, how else would we bond over microwaved spaghetti?
    But let me make this clear—if your gossip causes harm, it will be your employment status that gets reshuffled.

    Let’s build each other up, not burn each other down.
    In accordance with company policy…
    And the Book of Leviticus.

    Or pack up your decorative mugs and leave.

    Later that day, Susan and Yohanes didn’t gossip.
    They talked about the weather in Spain.

    And Dinah?
    Well… she was unusually quiet.
    Either she’s reflecting, plotting, or Googling “Leviticus.”
    Who knows?

    ✍️ Writer’s Note

    Hey, it’s me — Ember.

    Just a little disclaimer:

    The people in this story? Fictional.
    The chaos? Slightly exaggerated.
    But the message? Very real.

    After nearly 20 years in different workplaces, I’ve seen how gossip — even the “light” kind — can spread fast and hit deep.
    I’ve been a Susan and a Yohanes.
    This episode isn’t just for laughs… it’s a gentle reminder:
    Let’s build each other up, not tear each other down.

    Thanks for reading.
    Thanks for growing with me.

    Ember 🐾

    Still learning. Still rising. Still talking to Oishi.

  • Susan & Oishi: A Tale of The Signal Co. Ep. 1 – Character Introduction

    Narrator: Oishi
    (Reluctant. Tired. Overqualified for this nonsense.)

    Oishi (narrating):
    I don’t want to do this, but apparently, I’m the designated narrator of this madness—so here we are.

    I’m surrounded. Literally.
    To my left: Sahsmi, an orange Chihuahua with eyes big enough to reflect existential dread.
    On the rug: Bibimbap, our baby green elephant with the emotional intelligence of a therapist.
    Next to him, reclining like a celebrity scandal: Tteokbokki, the baby monkey—mid-burger, always.
    Staring from the aquarium with judgey bubbles: Maeutang, the fish.
    And stretching out in full drama-pony glory: Bulgogi, the baby blue horse who thinks he’s majestic. He is. He’s also clumsy but he’s not on the picture yet.

    Anyway.
    The past few days, Sus—my melodramatic, overcaffeinated hooman—has been coming home from work absolutely buzzing with chaos.
    She bursts through the door, scoops me up like I’m a purse dog, pins me under her arm, and says:

    “Oishi, my badoodle—I have a juicy scoop for you!”

    Then she monologues. For hours. Through dinner. Through dessert. Through my will to live.

    But I love Sus. So even if her voice pierces my eardrums like a kazoo powered by drama, I listen. Because love is patient. And she has the snacks.

    That said—my emotional support battery is draining faster than her phone at 3%.
    So each morning, when she leaves for work, I call my friends here and unload the tales before I emotionally combust.
    This, dear listener, is our ritual. And yes—there’s always a lesson, brought to you by yours truly:
    Oishi, your neighborhood PhilosoFurr.

    There are 11 coworkers—and one very dramatic hooman.

    Meet the team behind the drama. And the abs behind the confusion.

    There’s ten of them. Yes, 12 if you will count my Sus.
    So don’t fall asleep on me—I know it’s a lot, but trust me, they’re all important.
    Every single one of these characters is either a blessing, a lesson… or a cautionary tale wearing business casual.

    So listen up.
    Grab a fry.
    Let’s begin.

    Character 1: Susan V. – The Exaggerated Princess

    Susan V. is what happens when espresso, glitter, and unchecked emotions form a union.
    She’s in Customer Service but believes she’s in a high-stakes drama.
    Her morning mood is sponsored by “don’t talk to me,” and by dinner she’s dramatically whispering secrets into my ear like I’m her furry therapist.

    She calls me her badoodle, scoops me up like I’m a plush toy, and unleashes daily monologues that rival Netflix dramas.
    She wears shirts that say “Exaggerated Princess” because truth in labeling is important.

    But hey—she’s loyal, loud, and loves hard.
    So even if my ears suffer emotional damage, I listen.
    Because I love her.

    Character 2: Yohanes Abimbola – Gossip Analyst

    Yohanes isn’t technically paid to know everything—but he does.
    He doesn’t spread gossip to hurt. He spreads it because he’s got a talent for “informative observation with jazz hands.”

    His eyes sparkle with curiosity. His tone? Pure brunch gossip.
    He’s like the Wi-Fi of workplace drama—always on, mostly harmless.

    He wears mint green, pumpkin orange, and positivity.
    Even when he delivers eyebrow-raising intel, it’s with a smile that says,

    “I come in peace… but with details.”

    We love him. Even when we pretend we don’t.

    Character 3: Horatio T. – The HR Memo Monk

    Horatio T. is the kind of guy who walked into HR one day and never left. Not physically. Not spiritually.

    He’s got reddish-brown hair, thin-framed glasses, and a beige checkered suit so aggressively neutral it could erase your personality by eye contact alone.
    His tie? Pumpkin orange. Not because he’s fun. Because it’s mandatory brand compliance.

    He doesn’t talk—he issues memos.
    He doesn’t walk—he stomps silently, like a disappointed librarian.

    But here’s the twist:
    Deep, deep down in that spreadsheet-shaped soul… he has a heart.
    He’s helped employees file insurance claims like they were personal quests.
    He’s just trying to keep us from setting the place on fire—with rules.

    We call him the Memo Monk because if enlightenment had a PowerPoint, he would’ve written it.

    Character 4: Brenda Mondragon – The Voice of Reason

    Brenda is the reason this workplace hasn’t collapsed into a flaming pit of passive aggression and bad decisions.

    She’s 5’6″ of calm, moisturized authority.
    Her hair? Long, curly, hydrated. Her skin? Watered like a houseplant that knows its worth.
    She wears a calm green outfit paired with a delicate star pendant, like a walking parable with a good skincare routine.  
    And her white sneakers? Spotless. Like her reputation.

    Brenda is the only one who can:

    • Shush Yohanes mid-scoop.
    • Block Susan from eating a dozen donuts.
    • And disarm Horatio with a perfectly timed “Thank you for the memo, Horatio. We’ll take it into prayer.”

    She doesn’t say much—but when she does?
    It’s with biblical judgment and motherly precision.

    And rumor has it—she’s inviting Susan to church.

    Brenda doesn’t chase drama.
    Drama knocks and Brenda answers with a raised brow and a scripture.

    Character 5: Pete Erickson – The Number Snitch

    He’s pale. He’s nervous. He clutches his calculator like it’s the last loaf of bread in a zombie apocalypse.
    His glasses are thick enough to see into next fiscal year.
    He dresses like someone who gets mad when people use the color ink in the printer. (Because he does.)

    Pete’s superpower? Making everyone remember their taxes… in January.

    “Don’t forget to file your W-2.”

    He once tripped over a paperclip and filed an incident report… on himself.

    But here’s the thing: Pete means well. He’s just… Pete.
    He’s the human version of a paper jam. Awkward, unavoidable, and kind of tragic.
    But he keeps us legal. Barely.

    So we nod. We thank him.
    And we keep our receipts—just in case.

    Character 6: Macchismo D. – The Sales Adonis

    According to Susan, Macchismo is “so hot, volcanoes feel self-concious.
    Her pupils turn into tiny cartoon hearts every time she talks about him.
    It’s deeply concerning.

    Macchismo D. works in Sales, but let’s be honest—he sells himself just by walking into a room.
    He’s tall, muscular, and his raven-dark hair is so flawless.
    His smile sparkles. Literally. I suspect teeth glitter. Still investigating.

    He wears light blue polos like a superhero costume, and he says things like,

    “Let’s close this deal, team!”
    with the exact tone of someone who thinks that’s how you get promoted.

    People love him.
    People trust him.
    And honestly? That might be the real danger.

    He works under Jezzie Bell, who seems to have a lipstick-shaped leash on him.
    But hey, I’m just the dog. What do I know?

    For now, let’s just say this:
    Macchismo D. is dazzling.


    Character 7: Dinah Montgomery – The Gossip Queen

    If Yohanes is the office sparkle of harmless scoop, Dinah is the cold-brew version—strong, bitter, and served with no remorse.

    She walks in like she owns the building’s secrets.
    Black hair sleek as betrayal, snarky eyes, and glasses that serve zero optical purpose but scream “I see everything.”
    Her dark brown lipstick says “professional,” but her tone says “you’re about to get emotionally audited.”

    Dinah doesn’t just spill tea—she serves it pre-scorched.
    She’s not loud, but when she talks, people lean in… or leave.
    Because if Dinah says:

    “I saw Pete at the store,”
    you know she’s about to follow it up with something like:
    “…and the woman he was with wasn’t wearing a ring. Just saying.”

    She doesn’t ask questions—she plants landmines.

    Nobody really likes Dinah.
    But nobody wants to be on her radar either.
    Because if she doesn’t know your dirt… she’ll make some for you.

     Character 8: Jezzie Bell Morgan – The Corporate Siren

    Jezzie Bell Morgan doesn’t walk.
    She glides.
    Like a well-funded lawsuit in designer heels.

    Her red hair? Volcanic.
    Her lipstick? Same color as danger.
    Her vibe?
    “Sign here, sweetheart, and lose your soul in quarterly installments.”

    She’s the manager of the Sales department, which basically makes her the queen of convincing people to do things they’ll regret and thank her for afterward.
    She commands with a smile that says:

    “I already know what you’re going to say, and I’ve planned five responses, three bribes, and one perfectly timed sigh.”

    Jezzie doesn’t need to raise her voice.
    She just tilts her head and suddenly Macchismo is nodding like a bobblehead in a sauna.

    Her earrings sparkle.
    Her fingernails point like accusations.
    And when she says “trust me,” your instincts scream no—but your career prospects whisper yes.

    No one’s sure what she wants.
    But they know not to get in her way.

    Character 9: Philip Vaughn – The Office White Knight

    Most people in the office don’t pay much attention to Philip Vaughn.
    He’s listed as Internal Ops Assistant, which is corporate speak for “does everything quietly and without applause.”

    He doesn’t talk much.
    He doesn’t insert himself in gossip.
    He just shows up—early, focused, clean notebook, clean shirt, eyes like he’s reading your soul and your Google search history.

    But here’s the part no one really gets:
    When things go wrong—when Jezzie’s manipulating, Dinah’s detonating, and Macchismo is flexing his moral confusion—
    Philip steps in.
    Not loudly. Not dramatically.
    He just does the right thing like it’s muscle memory.

    Word around the breakroom is he’s a war veteran, which makes sense.
    He’s calm in chaos.
    Gentle with people.
    But firm when boundaries are crossed.

    He’s got white knight energy—the kind that doesn’t ask for credit.
    The kind that protects without performance.
    The kind that doesn’t bow to office power games or ego theatrics.

    You’ll probably overlook him.
    But he’s watching.
    And if you’re one of the good ones?
    He’s already in your corner.

    Character 10: Jasper P. – The Intern Who Spills Coffee and Feelings

    Jasper P. is the intern.
    You’ll know it the second you meet him—partly because he’ll tell you, and partly because he’ll already be apologizing for something.

    He’s got long-ish curly hair, permanently startled eyes, and the overall energy of someone who’s late for a meeting that doesn’t exist.

    He talks like a rapper who’s been hit with a mild anxiety attack:

    “Yo, yo, my bad, my fault, I was gonna fix that spreadsheet but then I spilled my latte and—uh—Pete slipped on it but he’s fine I think, and also the printer’s making a weird noise?”

    Jasper spills coffee, tea, water, information, and vibes.
    But he means well. And that’s the part that matters.

    And every time he spills something (which is… often), Ishmael appears—quietly, mop in hand.
    Never scolds. Never sighs. Just cleans up.

    Jasper may be clumsy.
    But he’s trying.
    And that makes him important.
    Not because he’s perfect—but because he wants to be better.

    Character 11: Ishmael – The Janitor With a Mysterious Calm

    Ishmael is… different.
    He doesn’t say much.
    He doesn’t need to.

    He wears an old janitor uniform, faded and clean.
    Silver hair, quiet eyes, and a beard that says “I’ve seen things, but I’ve forgiven most of them.”

    He’s always there.
    Not in a creepy way—more in a divine timing, slow-motion mop-wielding kind of way.

    Someone spills coffee? Ishmael’s already halfway there.
    Printer explodes? Ishmael’s got a wrench, a rag, and a quote from Proverbs.
    Jezzie tries to verbally flatten a coworker? Ishmael makes eye contact once, and she forgets her next sentence.

    People treat him like just a janitor.
    But those of us who watch—we know.
    There’s something about him that feels bigger.

    He moves like a man with nothing to prove and everything to teach—if you’re paying attention.

    They call him Ishmael the Janitor.
    But honestly?
    We don’t know who he really is.
    Not yet.

    And that’s the crew.

    Now you know who’s who.
    So when the drama starts—you won’t get lost.

    The real office saga begins in Episode 2.
    See You!
    📡 Totally Made-Up Company Alert: The Signal Co.: Not your internet provider — but we will disconnect your emotional stability. We don’t sell broadband. We sell breakdowns.

  • Susan & Oishi: Ep. 3 – Karaoke Night

    Susan & Oishi: Ep. 3 – Karaoke Night

    Narrator: Susan, the Emotionally Unsupervised Hooman
    Friday night: the people’s champion. Universally voted the second-best day after Saturday. After a long week of Zoom meetings, adulting, and Pete’s never-ending monologue about accounting taxes (ugh), it was finally here.

    Narrator: Oishi (yes, I’m a dog—keep up)
    Susan came bursting through the door like a caffeinated hurricane, slamming the car shut and storming into the house. I was mid-nap, belly-up, living my best Shih Tzu life, when suddenly—scoop!

    She squealed, “OISHI! We’re going Karaokeeeee with Yohanes and Brenda! They booked a bar!”
    Then she tied my red bandana like I was going to prom. I licked her face out of sheer survival instinct. She tasted salty, but emotionally enthused. I tolerated it.

    We arrived. It was a tiny room with a screen, two mics, and the heavy scent of regret. Susan grabbed the remote and went full maniac mode. The second the intro played, she clutched the mic like she was accepting a Grammy. Yohanes and Brenda screamed “GO SUS!” like she was Beyoncé’s backup singer.

    Then it started.
    🎵 “I cried a tear, you wiped it dry…” 🎵
    Yes. Anne Murray’s You Needed Me. The drama. The vibrato. The unblinking eye contact.

    I was concerned. But that concern escalated when Yohanes and Brenda started singing APT by Rose and Bruno Mars. Not just singing—dancing. If I were a human, I would’ve put my hand on my forehead and softly muttered, “No.”

    But… it wasn’t all bad.

    There was food.
    Savory. Glorious. Human-grade food.
    While they performed their emotional talent show, I worked the snack table like a professional. I’m not proud. I am full.

    We went home. We ate more.
    Then I passed out.

    Oishi, out. 🎤🐾

    No deep reflections from your Little Philisophurr today. Why?
    Because Susan said this one’s just a regular Friday.
    Not everything has to be profound.
    Sometimes, we just vibe.