Digestive Drama

I knew I was in trouble this morning when I saw them outside of my office, firing up the grill. They gathered around it with bags of charcoal and packs of bratwurst, their eyes filled with the glint of determination. An uneasy growl escaped from my stomach. "Be quiet, my pet," I whispered, "we have work to do." With that, I slipped into the bathroom to prepare. A few seconds later, I emerged with a bib stapled to my shirt and a battle cry on my lips. Over the din of mouse clicking and keyboard clacking, I bellowed, "THIS MONKEY'S READY FOR HIS NANNERS!"

If, by the grace of God, I were chosen to teach a class on dramatic stories about eating, I would hand that paragraph out with the syllabus. The students' eyes would fill with tears. "But we can never top this!" they'd whimper. I'd walk over to them and place a sympathetic hand on their shoulders. "I understand," I'd begin. Then, I'd kick their desks over and say, "but I honestly don't give a damn! If you'd rather have a crybaby party than write dramatic stories about eating, then get the hell out!" Maybe some of them would leave after that; good, we don't need that kind of crap in there. From there, it'd be just like Dead Poet's Society, except in the end, I'd fail all of the students and then get fired for making threatening remarks about the Portuguese.

But the opening paragraph is more than my humble contribution to the field of dramatic eating stories, it's an honest-to-God account of what happened this morning at work. We held an Octoberfest deal today, complete with sauerkraut and oompa loopma music. As part of my unflagging support for multiculturalism, I went after the bratwurst like some kind of wolf child who's been surviving on tufts of reindeer fur and roofing shingles for the past 10 years. I ate so much, it took all of my facilities not to go into my office, turn off the lights, and curl up into a ball under the desk, where I'd spend the rest of the day alternately crying, dry heaving, and praying. Thankfully, that didn't happen. Instead, I just walked through the halls for a while, rubbing my stomach and trying to figure out if I what I saw in front of me was a meat-induced hallucination.