Yesterday when I went to get my frozen lunch from the freezer it was gone. There was one frozen lunch and four boxes of frozen corn in there, all marked "Steve," so I walked down to Steve's office.
"Did you, um, eat my lunch by accident?" I asked nicely.
"Did I? I might have."
"Shoot. That explains why the box didn't have my name on it."
Awkward, drawn out pause.
"I, um, don't have a lunch now..."
"Right! Have my tofu lasagna."
Yuck. I would rather sprinkle moldy cheese and gizzards on my toes, mash them into my shoes, run five miles and lick the goo off than eat tofu lasagna.
"I don't really like tofu," I said, this time not as nicely. More like, Hey, jackass, you ate my lunch, how about $5?
"Shoot, sorry," he said. "Next time write your name on the box."
I was about to say, "Ok, sure," but why? Why was it my fault he ate my lunch? So I said, "Next time eat the lunch with your name on it."
I shot him death rays, but he was already back to typing. Apparently we have not progressed from our days on the playground.
I need a plan. A carefully hatched plan of revenge. Yeeeessssss. Mwaaahahahahaa.
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