Your Tax Dollars At Work

Late this afternoon, Robbie, whose cubicle is one row nearer to our kitchen area than mine, woefully informed me that he had just overheard two of our fellow employees solemnly discussing how to know when microwave popcorn has finished cooking. "I'm pretty sure it's done when you don't hear any more kernels popping," one said.

But alas! The stench of vaporized trans-fat which soon permeated the entire floor would seem to indicate that the other person was not convinced.

Then, just to make matters worse, a third employee (I should mention that none of these people belong to the set that Robbie and I hang out with) came over and sprayed huge amounts of some horrible, cloying, sickly sweet substance in a vain attempt to cover up the burning smell, with the result that Robbie's cube neighbor had to take an extra smoke break just in order to preserve her lungs.

I think Robbie went home a little early. I stayed put at my desk and read Dante's Inferno until quitting time.