We often have guests come to our office for meetings. These ‘meetings’ typically happen 2-3 times a week. It’s kinda nice sometimes because you meet people from all over the world. Some hot. Most not. But really, the nice thing is that when we have these ‘meetings’, the chef comes with it and we always eat for free. Call it a perk.
Yesterday, this perk went and got all wrong.
Our chef, he’s not the most talented thing in the world. His preparations are limited. And bland. Often prepared offsite and assembled in-house. Similar to the ailing Airbus business model. Also, he can be an asshole. But yesterday, he made this nice, mild curry dish, with one of his usual side dishes, something to the effect of potato salad. Only different.
Yesterday, something was off. He must’ve done something different to the mayonnaise. Maybe it was bad baloney. I dunno. But whatever he did, it gave me the most relentless, explosive bout of gas I’ve had in months. No. Years. Yes, definitely years.
It was prolonged. Acoustically abusive. Professionally, and personally abusive. If I was married, and at home, and my wife and I were at home, unable to leave the house, wheelchair-bound perhaps, and we shared a studio apartment, with one window overlooking the busy street, but unfortunately our arms didn’t work ‘cause maybe they were handicapped up too, the cops would have to come up and bust down our door and wheel my ass off to jail for domestic disturbance.
It didn’t end there. It gave me funky dreams too. ‘It’ being the food. Or the internal trauma my system went through for 15 straight hours. Again, I don’t know. The only dream I remember was one where I met Vladimir Putin. His face was different, but it was the definitely the Russian leader. A bit more heavy-set. Wore a nice, blue denim button-down. His demeanour was different too. Like he was casting for a role on the hit Fox show, 24. Basically he was being a complete dick. So he made me do this competition with him, like a dance-off. Only we were on skis. And instead of dancing, we were skiing this ski run made of tree branches. And being that I’m a pretty good skier, I remember winning. But like I said, he was being a dick, so he made me take off my shoes and put on these 200 year old Russian, prison torture slippers that had been completely crusted over. They were fu*king disgusting. So I thought that if I just said, ‘Goodbye’ to him in Russian, ‘cause I can do that, that perhaps he would just let me go. Then he walks me outside and down the stairs where I see Olympic and Pro NBA Basketball player Carmelo Anthony of the Denver Nuggets, walking up the stairs. I remember quickly introducing my self to ‘Melo,’ acknowledging that I too am from Denver, in hopes that he would see my slippers and realize the trouble I’m in, and just put the smack down on Vladimir’s ass. Because I mean, you know, he’s from the hood and all.
The end.
Yesterday, this perk went and got all wrong.
Our chef, he’s not the most talented thing in the world. His preparations are limited. And bland. Often prepared offsite and assembled in-house. Similar to the ailing Airbus business model. Also, he can be an asshole. But yesterday, he made this nice, mild curry dish, with one of his usual side dishes, something to the effect of potato salad. Only different.
Yesterday, something was off. He must’ve done something different to the mayonnaise. Maybe it was bad baloney. I dunno. But whatever he did, it gave me the most relentless, explosive bout of gas I’ve had in months. No. Years. Yes, definitely years.
It was prolonged. Acoustically abusive. Professionally, and personally abusive. If I was married, and at home, and my wife and I were at home, unable to leave the house, wheelchair-bound perhaps, and we shared a studio apartment, with one window overlooking the busy street, but unfortunately our arms didn’t work ‘cause maybe they were handicapped up too, the cops would have to come up and bust down our door and wheel my ass off to jail for domestic disturbance.
It didn’t end there. It gave me funky dreams too. ‘It’ being the food. Or the internal trauma my system went through for 15 straight hours. Again, I don’t know. The only dream I remember was one where I met Vladimir Putin. His face was different, but it was the definitely the Russian leader. A bit more heavy-set. Wore a nice, blue denim button-down. His demeanour was different too. Like he was casting for a role on the hit Fox show, 24. Basically he was being a complete dick. So he made me do this competition with him, like a dance-off. Only we were on skis. And instead of dancing, we were skiing this ski run made of tree branches. And being that I’m a pretty good skier, I remember winning. But like I said, he was being a dick, so he made me take off my shoes and put on these 200 year old Russian, prison torture slippers that had been completely crusted over. They were fu*king disgusting. So I thought that if I just said, ‘Goodbye’ to him in Russian, ‘cause I can do that, that perhaps he would just let me go. Then he walks me outside and down the stairs where I see Olympic and Pro NBA Basketball player Carmelo Anthony of the Denver Nuggets, walking up the stairs. I remember quickly introducing my self to ‘Melo,’ acknowledging that I too am from Denver, in hopes that he would see my slippers and realize the trouble I’m in, and just put the smack down on Vladimir’s ass. Because I mean, you know, he’s from the hood and all.
The end.
