Not Quite The Horse Head

How do you know when you’re going to have a bad day?


When you open your oven to check dinner, the rump roast farts in your face.


For those of you younger readers, an oven is a big hot box that people used to put food into in order to cook it.  It’s kinda like a slow microwave.


That rump roast joke used to kill me.  It’s still firmly ensconced in my skull as one of my all time favorite jokes which feature punch lines like “…because he can”.


This morning while wandering into Cubeville donning my old Spurs t-shirt from the 2007 endeavor, tennies, and denim (as approved by the company power broker), I happened upon the most troubling of indicators which had the gall to suggest that things weren’t going to go as well as I originally anticipated.


How could this be?


How is it that a return to cubicle sweet cubicle on a beautiful Thursday morning where I would partake in my bottle of Lipton Green Tea (the unaltered flavor) and the promise of a  lemon poppy seed muffin (false positive) lead to certain demise?


But then it occurred to me.


Ladies and gentlemen, just a few days ago I revealed to the world that the real power behind any corporation is the person who designates and approves denim days.  Those are the days where you can step away from the trappings of a pair of Dockers and a short sleeve polo type shirt and into the freedom of jeans.  Tennies are typically forbidden in those cases.


Now that the secret is out, I believe that the powers that be are a little miffed at me for exposing them.  I think they’re trying to send me a message that if I continue to pursue this narrative, that I could possibly regret it.


The first sign they sent me of their disapproval wasn’t a farting rump roast or anything like that.


Instead, it was a metaphor in the presence of my nameplate lying face down on the floor just outside of my cubicle.


Memo to the Chief Denim Designator:  Message received.

Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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