One thing about working where I do is, any time management decides they want to spoil us working-class grunts, they do it with food. Usually the food is tied to a celebration. It’s like “Oh! It’s so-and-so’s birthday – let’s have cake!”, or “Ms. Whats-Her-Name graduated night school. To celebrate, let’s all shove a bagel in our pie hole!”
Lately things have been a little more celebratory than I, she-whose-diet-consists-of-85%-organic-veggies, would like. Yesterday we got an e-mail to announce that – woopie –the Big Guns hooked us up, because the pop machine is now selling Mr Pibb for 25cents! And while we have avoided such a monstrosity for many months, today a large, Funyun-wielding vending machine appeared outside the men’s room on the second floor.
And even though I’m anti, even though I’m so totally against processed foods and their excessive consumption, I have to admit, being given the opportunity for pants-splitting gluttony is great.
Yes, I am a Nutrition Nazi, but I appreciate that the bosses at a Very Hip Software Company like their employees enough to pony up for pizza every once in a while. I mean, where I used to work, my old boss, he was so tight, you could put a lump of coal up his ass, and after a fortnight, you’d probably have a diamond.
Seriously – this dude was so cheap that around the holidays, instead of throwing a party, he forced his egregiously underpaid employees to purchase and prepare various foodies for a mandatory, Christmas pot-luck. This 60 minute intestinal adventure in the cockroach-infested den of iniquity known as the company kitchen, well it was meant to satiate us.
I don’t think any of us were fooled.
As we chewed through the beef jerky that Helen insisted was meatballs, we knew that other companies were throwing real Christmas parties, the kind you don’t bring a crockpot to, the kind where you drink too much and then photocopy your unmentionables.
Yeah, because I worked for Ebenezer Scrooge, we never had that party, and that’s a real shame. After all, nothing says Celebration of Christ’s Birth quite like a Xeroxed set of butt cheeks.
But I digress.
So in conclusion, I won’t be drinking that swill, but the 25cent soda was a nice gesture. It makes Hänni happy. Good job Big Guns!
And good job to you too dear hannihaus readers. If you’re reading this, you’ve made it through another marathon post. I’m on a freaking roll this week – woo.
