It occurred to me that if I got up from my desk and took a stroll through the office I might be struck with a brilliant thought for this week's column. (Right there's some free fodder on a platter for you Scene
detractors. Have at it.) Instead, it occurred to me why we have so many roaches in this god-forsaken building. Upstairs, on the kitchen table, there is an open Tupperware container with "Mexican fudge" in it. On a Post-It note that says something like "I resolve to get high-speed DSL" is an explanation that this poor man's delicacy includes cheese and jalapenos. It's been there since circa Thursday, unrefrigerated, and some poor schlub has pilfered from the stash since this morning. We predict an intimate evening on the toilet for this unfortunate.
Friday, our assistant sales manager took the liberty, having dutifully warned his colleagues, of throwing away every item in the office refrigerator that wasn't dated and identified. That was pretty much everything. The last time we did this, we found a 3-year-old casserole, or sandwich—we're not sure. It was like a layman trying to identify the sex of a skeleton at an archaelogical dig: not easy.
Anybody got an office kitchen story to rival this?