In the full-service gas station and automotive shop where I worked for ten years, we had the “Go Fuck Yourself” game.
How you played was: you waited until a coworker was completely engrossed in a difficult task that was obviously pissing them off. Then, from a nice safe distance, you call out their name, like you need them for something:
“Hey, Jim!”
(Jim ignores you.)
“Jim!”
(Ignores.)
“Jim!”
(Still yet ignores you, but every nuance to his posture speaks to his profound rage towards you, his job, his dead wife, minorities he can’t even keep track of coherently, and whatever else is going on in that rat’s nest he calls a psyche.)
“Jim!”
“What!?” Jim yells, as he finally pulls his focus away from his task.
“Go fuck yourself!”
Pro tip: When doing this game with the real Jim, make fucking well sure you’re ready to duck whatever hand tool he’s using, because that shit is more than likely bound for your head.
It was not a healthy work place, but we sure did like to laugh. Because fuck Jim.
Muse Vassal 