Words and Thoughts — August 24, 2023
Hello again, alleged readers. As you can tell by the zeal with which I typed the period in the preceding sentence, I’m a little riled up; and for that, to you, I apologize. I should not be projecting my riled state outward toward you all, as presumably, you’ve done nothing to bring me to this state in which I find myself practically foaming at the mouth. However, I will certainly share with the alleged readership what the cause of all this turmoil is: My co-worker. We’ll call him the decidedly generic name, “Skorkus,” to protect his identity, and from any strongly worded postcards that we as a collective might see fit to send his way.
In this essay, I will lay bare for you all, “The Transgression of Skorkus”.
I had just snuck into the cafeteria at work. Ever since I ate too much oatmeal during free oatmeal week, I haven’t been allowed in there unsupervised. My banishment wasn’t caused so much by my eating of the two to seven pounds of oatmeal on day-three of Free Oatmeal Week, as it was the on-the-spot regurgitation of said oatmeal when the cashier commented, “Stav, that might be too much oatmeal.” Yes, yes, some of it got in the cashier’s keyboard, but you all know how I like to eat:
- Standing up — For efficiency.
- As close to the serving counter as possible – Why waste time looking for a table?
- As quickly as possible — One’s mouth should be filled to capacity with each bite, again, for efficiency.
- If it’s a place with a cashier, attempting to make unbroken eye contact with the cashier for the entirety of the meal — Staring contests are fun for everyone, always.
And that is how I came to learn the painful lesson that spite-barfing oatmeal too close to the cashier at work is apparently enough to make one persona-non-grata.
Back to Skorkus.
As I said, I was incognito by the soup station. I could feel the cafeteria workers becoming suspicious, as today’s disguise of a metal mesh wastepaper basket on my head was not my best effort at obfuscating my true identity. I had to be quick with my soup decision. But then, over walks Skorkus. “Any good soup options today?” he insufferably inquired.
“Any. Good. Soup. Options. Today?”
My internal monologue raged, “Skorkus, how in the hell do I know what you consider to be ‘good’ soup options, today, or any day?” The innumerable follow up questions that I would have to ask Skorkus in order to adequately answer his incalculably inane question. Temperature, texture, taste, mouthfeel, composition… all things one must carefully consider when determining the goodness of soup, and all things inherently unique to each individual. It is this beautifully unique mosaic that crafts the exquisitely varied landscape of our very existence. A mosaic shattered by Skorkus’ lead soup ladle of a question that would be impossible to answer with any sort of truth or intention.
Rage and disgust swirled within me, a veritable boiling goulash of confoundment. It took the last shreds of my internal filter to keep me from exploding the rage-goulash everywhere (metaphorically this time, not like the aforementioned oatmeal incident). I calmed myself, perhaps out of fear of being discovered unsupervised in the cafeteria, or perhaps simply by the grace of any number of various deities. Regardless, I took a small breath, and lifted my trashcan slightly so as to raise it just above my chin.
“The Italian Wedding seems OK”.