I just met my office’s coffee supplier. He delivers the coffee, tea, filters, sugar, cream and milk.
He’s not completely ungoodlooking.
I’m guessing he has a lot of punch lines running around.
You know…because he’s the milkman?
And, you know…people sometimes joke that kids were the result of an affair between the mother and the milkman?
And because he’s not completely ungoodlooking, he could possibly have some illegitimate children?
And those illegitimate children would, essentially, be the punch line to the joke?
Not that I suspect he is in any way promiscuous. He may even be married. And if he is, I’m sure he’s happily and faithfully married to a wonderful woman who wouldn’t appreciate me questioning his husband’s loyalty to their union.
Nevermind. I suck at jokes.
One of the more sizable gentlemen who works in my office was wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the image of Mickey Mouse.
Not that there’s anything wrong with a grown man wearing oversized children’s clothing, but it struck me as hilarious.
It would be funnier if you knew where I worked, but I’m not telling you that so you’ll just have to take my word for it.
Hint: He deals with construction workers on a daily basis, in a manner that requires him to emit an air of authority.
With Mickey Mouse on his shirt.
Comic genius. You can’t write this stuff. Well, maybe you can but I can’t (see item #1).
Back story: I was born without the ability to fart out loud. Mine are consistently of the S.B.V. brand.
I work in an office, with other people, at a front desk, where other other people come for help with a variety of issues.
Today I discovered that not only have I developed the ability to crank one out loud enough to rattle the windows, but it can happen when you’re least expecting it.
Like at work.
In an office with other people at a front desk with other other people.
It can only be described as a Miracle From God that there was no one at the counter and no one near my desk.
I just realized that there’s a couple of people at work who read my blog.
Screw it, I’m publishing this anyway.
I’ve heard when you give birth, the placenta contains your dignity, so there you go. Yeah, I farted at work. What? You probably do it all the time. I just have the cahones to admit it.
But not to anyone in person. Just to the anonymous Internets. If anyone asks, it wasn’t me. It was the dog.