I Am Going to Get the Biggest Piece of this Office Birthday Cake
The good news: there’s birthday cake in the break room.
The bad news: It’s carrot cake.
I suspect that this is a not-so-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?
Correction: a gourmet 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! You know, given that chocolate and vanilla are the universal flavors that bind together all people of all nations, including notorious outliers North Korea and Canada.
A gourmet carrot cake, however, is nothing short of a chef drugging and raping the 13-year-old virginal equivalent of a traditional vanilla cake. I.e., carrot cake is the Roman Polanski of confectionery.
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 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.
And while I understand that it may not be my birthday and I only started working here last week, I still 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 so I’m more than entitled the biggest piece.
I also understand that the women from production are patiently waiting behind me, but I need to hurry and get this third of the cake back to my desk before Nigel starts moaning about how there aren’t any gluten free options.
Because Nigel is a fucking pussy.