I got into work about 3.5 hours late today in a last-ditch attempt to cram in enough sleep to kill my cold and was still at work around 6:00 PM when Chris Fosmire walked in with a bucket of square buttery-looking cookies.  Chris grabbed a cookie and his coffee, sitting down in his Chair of Science and began coughing so I simply tried one.

I experience bad food like most people experience car accidents (and vice versa); I see that something terrible is about to happen and I try to summon my reflexes to avert disaster but usually fail.  On the other hand, when I’m about to get into a car accident (or run over kittens, another story) I take my hands and feet off the wheel and pedals, respectively and brace for impact.  I could hear the screams from the bundle of nerves with the painful task of transferring disgust-ions (the fundamental particle of crappy food) to my brain and back.  The cookie was supposed to a cinnamon butter cookie but was something far more sinister.

• I think the cinnamon was replaced with pepper
• I think the vegetable oil was replaced with Italian dressing
• I think the flour was replaced with shredded sandpaper

Chris and I were unsure what to do with these infernal cookies until inspiration struck.  We put it in the marketing department breakroom with a innocuous sign that said “Thank You!” without saying who it came from.  Worse than a baby at the doorstep.

I got into work about 3.5 hours late today in a last-ditch attempt to cram in enough sleep to kill my cold and was still at work around 6:00 PM when Chris Fosmire walked in with a bucket of square buttery-looking cookies.  Chris grabbed a cookie and his coffee, sitting down in his Chair of Science and began coughing so I simply tried one.

I experience bad food like most people experience car accidents (and vice versa); I see that something terrible is about to happen and I try to summon my reflexes to avert disaster but usually fail.  On the other hand, when I’m about to get into a car accident (or run over kittens, another story) I take my hands and feet off the wheel and pedals, respectively and brace for impact.  I could hear the screams from the bundle of nerves with the painful task of transferring disgust-ions (the fundamental particle of crappy food) to my brain and back.  The cookie was supposed to a cinnamon butter cookie but was something far more sinister.

• I think the cinnamon was replaced with pepper
• I think the vegetable oil was replaced with Italian dressing
• I think the flour was replaced with shredded sandpaper

Chris and I were unsure what to do with these infernal cookies until inspiration struck.  We put it in the marketing department breakroom with a innocuous sign that said “Thank You!” without saying who it came from.  Worse than a baby at the doorstep.