I Am Going to Get the Biggest Piece of this Office Birthday Cake
The good news: there’s birthday cake in the breakroom.
The bad news: It’s carrot cake.
I suspect that this is intended as a subtle “fuck you” from management in the wake of the staff’s recent attempt to unionize under the demand that management install an animatronic house band in the conference room a la the Country Bear Jamboree.
What better way to fuck over your staff than to place a birthday celebration on everyone’s Google calendar, only to have them gather around a goddamn carrot cake?
Because in truth, a generic, pre-packaged carrot cake from Safeway would probably have been acceptable enough, even if it pales in comparison to, oh, I don’t know: a chocolate or vanilla cake that is universally delicious and enjoyed by everyone from every corner of the globe, including people from backwards countries like Canada and North Korea!
A gourmet carrot cake, however, is nothing short of a chef drugging and raping the 12-year-old virginal equivalent of a traditional vanilla cake. And if that sounds unnecessarily harsh, let me explain that this failed abortion of a cake is festooned with dried dates and an assortment of other disgusting tastes and textures sprinkled throughout its otherwise meaty, doughy consistency.
The act of mastication required to struggle down this ungodly creation will undoubtedly be similar to what I imagine pussy-whipped hippie fathers endure when being forced to eat their child’s placenta after it has been rolled in loose gravel and wood chippings and soaked in a homeless person’s syphilitic urine.
Nonetheless, I intend to cut my own slice of this birthday cake, thank you very much, because I can see that you have a frugal cutting hand and I am not fucking around today.
I understand that it may not be my birthday and I only started working here last week, but I put in a hard day of work between instant messaging my friends to complain about our working conditions and share clips of last night’s Daily Show. And while the women from the production department may be patiently waiting behind me, I’m going to take this third of the cake back to my desk and try to enjoy it before Nigel starts moaning about how there aren’t any gluten free options.
Because Nigel is a fucking pussy.