Our corporate honchos don't think enough of what we do to pay us nearly enough for the hours we work and the stress we endure, what with the public thinking we're straight-up Beelzebub and all. And I don't mean the cutesy Red Devil fireworks devil or the ballad-singing Satan in the South Park movie, I mean fire-breathing, face-fucked-up-like-Mickey-Rourke, pitchfork-wielding, Al-Pacino-style-holy-water-boiling Lucifer.
However, management does see fit to reward our efforts with Folgers craptacular sludge and some cheap-ass toys from the Dollar Store to "relieve stress" like we're the ghetto Google.
And there's the center table.
The center table in our office has a candy basket that's almost always brimming with sweeties.
Except on the days some health-conscious jackass decides we should all have to eat extra-dark chocolate. Sometimes it's raspberry flavored and sometimes it has little, crunchy, cacao nibs in it for extra anti-oxidant yumminess and potential choking. That fucker.
Anyhoo, the center table is the repository for all kinds of food swag that we as members of the media cannot take from sources, because the media gods fear that a fucking cup of real coffee, with actual liquid cream in it, or a sandwich that doesn't feature pink-jellied Spam as its centerpiece, might lure us into writing something that's not entirely objective.
What are we, cheap-ass whores? That was a rhetorical question, you bastards.
Sorry to get off track there. Back to the center table.
A couple days ago, it was wrap sandwiches. On Election Night this year it was homemade lasagna and salads.
Today, it's cookies. COOKIES! I dig coming into the office and finding cookies! Who loves me, baby?
OK, the cookies aren't for me, personally. They are actually just leftovers from yesterday's crew. But who cares? Some of the packages were still unopened!
What kind of food do your masters ply you with so you won't complain about low wages and shitty mileage reimbursements? And what's your favorite office food? Hmmm? Tell it. Tell it all.

2 comments:
The once a month office birthday cake is one. And useless stale chocolates from someone's trip to Florida or New Orleans. That's about it. In non-profit, we are expected to suffer for the cause.
I know who puts the unfortunate gourmet chocolate ala Costco on the table. Her last name coincidentally rhymes with Kill Us.
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