What Smells Like Eggs?
The site of our latest office scandal hangs over an olive-colored bog wading through the aisles of a once great, now crumbling foam city. Pale-faced drones shuffle through the day with handkerchiefs wrapped around their noses as they dodge the gooey yellow yolk prepared in a toaster oven which, after its recent holiday installation, has threatened our senses with a sanity-gripping odor.
Similar to the canned tuna scare, the rampant egg preparation has divided the office into white collar gangs that verbally spar over open-concept kitchens and baby omelets made with hot sausage and onions (among other ingredients). Have you ever witnessed two collared factions throw down in a clash of khaki?
Passive aggressive sarcastic daggers fly, coffee machines and refrigerator space is hoarded, absolute lovable chaos typically lost in an office with an in-house human resources rep.
I too am a fan of the oval whites in moderation, but the red level of scrambling in this office has kept Wisconsin hens working nights to meet demand. We still have days in which a barren wasteland of empty cartons will drive the yolk-seekers into verbally abusive madness.
Wait, I just heard the timer sound. I hear the quick steps through the office. Brace yourselves, sweet readers, the toaster oven gates are about to be breached, and the pungent aroma may render me unconscious.
The little glass door opens. The Pyrex bowl is extracted. I force an exploratory sniff …
Minutes later ... I come to. Who makes a tuna omelet? Why is my palette salivating? My appetite is clearly in flux, but I’ll save the tuna/egg experimentation for a time with more bacon and less coworkers.
Sure, interoffice food preparation saves time and money. That is, if the preparation doesn’t drive the remaining able-bodied coworkers to a mad dash for the door, gasping for Midwestern fresh air.
I’ve plotted with a coworker for an emergency plan in the event of a great odious disaster. We have constructed a rope using remnant Ethernet cables and old mice and, in the event of a dozen-egg casserole, we will breach the window, billow out yellow SOS smoke signals and make a break for the parking lot below.
With yolk on my face, I bid you adieu. Here’s hoping appetites switch to something less noxious.
From Egg Crisis 2010, I’m David Mantey.
*Who wants to bet more people tune into Tiger’s contrived apology than the state of the union? We have far greater issues than egg bakes, but they all leave behind an odor most foul. To place bets, email me at firstname.lastname@example.org.