If you worked for Company Y, pretend you were some mid-level drone from Sector 7G, and you wanted to make sure your career at Y Co. became something of interest solely to historians, there are two was you could do it: you can get "nicked by the Sweeney" or you can "send the Richard."

    The former refers to getting laid off. I don't know how the Life On Mars-ish terminology got applied to it, but the euphemism is fairly common office slang now.
    Worker 1: "Where'd Simon go?"
    Worker 2: "He got nicked by the Sweeney."
    W1: "No shit. Did he take his desk lamp?"

    The later refers to resignation. Specifically, it refers to the resignation letter composed by one Richard Priest, contents below:

I am sorry to do this to you so soon after the loss of your beloved "Mr. Q " (Stan Quvecchio – a bigwig who retired earlier this year).

It is with no sadness that I tell you that today is my last day at Company Y. Thank you all for a wonderful 7.5 years.

Some of you may be asking yourself, how is it that this "Richard Priest" has been working here for 7.5 years and I do not know him? Well, I am constructed of the very same materials used in our nation's finest military technology. Your radar cannot find me. I have, to my knowledge, never been promoted, never received a significant raise and therefore, have never been laid off. I have attended as few meetings as possible, pursued no office romances and attended approximately two company parties. My pursued anonymity in no way suggests that I haven't done incredible work here, because, as any of my numerous bosses whom I've outlasted will attest, I am perhaps one of the BEST CUSTOMER SERVICE REPS THIS COMPANY HAS EVER SEEN (their words not mine), AND IT IS A SHAME TO SEE HIM GO (again, not my words). My only fear is that my departure will have a "Jenga" like effect on the rest of the company, and I would hate for that to happen. Stay strong!

Although I am moving on to a job that will challenge me intellectually and creatively like never before, not to mention make me wealthier than I could have ever hoped, I will truly miss the blissful monotony of churning out useless reports for ignorant investors and the power that comes with it. The trenches of high finance are no place for the weak, and the men and women whom I've been fortunate enough to serve with in the Company Y Army were courageous enough to teach me to never, under any circumstances, give a sucker an even break.

So I humbly thank you, Company Y, for allowing me to bonsai my intellect, soul, and wallet for nearly a decade in pursuit of the noble ideal that ONE IS BORN EVERY MINUTE!!

Though few folks who send the Richard ever reach the artistic heights of the original, the spirit is usually there.

    The first of our latest losses simply got a better deal. But the second, Kate, was well within her rights to send the Richard. See was, it is felt, set up.

    Early last week, the folks in Sector 7G were trying to pick up the pieces of a particular shitty deal that an overly creative sales rep sealed out in California. The deal was under-priced, on a timeline two shades sillier than "damned stupid," and included numerous services that, as far as I know, we've never provide to anybody. As such deals are want to do, it held together just long enough to get the client's John Hancock. Of course, this IED of a contract detonated the moment it got to the NYC office.

    Demonstrating the unerring instincts for leadership that mark all our upper management types, Carl surveyed the blood and carnage and asked, "So, was there anything we could have done better."

    Kate, who management had decided should absorb most of the blast, picked herself out of the rubble and shot off an email detailing the many failures of the sales staffer responsible for this choice bit of work. He email included modest proposals as checking contracts before their signed, enforcing minimum pricing guidelines, and informing the sales staff just what it is Company Y does so they could sell services we actually perform. Only her email, unlike my summary, contained lots of obscene terms and referred to the sales staffer by the informal title of The Fucking Moron (TFM). She also carefully marked her letter as "for research and content only – not for general circulation."

    On Wednesday, Carl sent the email, unedited, to TFM.

    TFM announced that the letter was too much and said she'd have to take a week off to decide whether or not she wanted to continue working for a company so full of meanies.

    On Thursday, Carl summoned Kate to his office. He explained that she was wrong to have written the email. She was not a team player and he didn't like her attitude.
    Kate explained that she hadn't intended the email for general circulation and that it was Carl who, in fact, had screwed things up.
    Carl made some thinly veiled threat to Kate.
    Kate said that threats wouldn't be necessary. She'd walk if that's what Carl wanted.
    Carl, realizing that he might actually lose one of the longest surviving employees of the company, started to back track. He played the race card. It would be a shame if Kate left, he said. There aren't very many of "us" in the office, he explained. Both Kate and Carl are African American.
    Kate explained that she liked to think that it would be the consistently excellent nature of her work that the company would miss most, and not the color of her skin.
    Carl then told her that she seemed depressed and unhappy. She'd seemed this way for a while. Would some time off for therapy help?
    That's when Kate walked out the office. She left early, went home, and composed her Richard. She sent it off Friday. We learned all this today.

    We also learned that TFM has decided that she can find it in her heart to forgive us all and that she will continue to send us premium TFM-specials from the left coast. But, she said, she was still going to take the rest of the week off. You don't just recover from the unvarnished truth, you know? It takes some time.
    Poor girl.