Conceits of Mass Destruction

I’ve acquired yet another job. The fifth one, if I’m not mistaken.

My fifth job is a Sunday night waitressing stint at this old New York, Soho mainstay called Funfetti Café. Did I submit a resume there? Of course not. Was I properly trained before working my first shift on Sunday night? Hardly. It was great.

I’m not sure why it is that I can’t stay moderately employed. Upon hearing about this fifth job, many of my friends' jaws fell open; to some, my employment or lack thereof is a disaster waiting to happen. I’m either dropping jobs like nuclear bombs or stocking up on them like cans of baked beans in the fallout shelter of my life.

But screw all you haters. I actually like all of my jobs.

Well, four out of five, anyway. I'll segue this into the latest on my Badvertiser poopscapades, which, admittedly haven’t been quite as entertaining as usual; just general memos about out of order bathrooms, nothing poop-specific.

Which leads me to announce that poop is so last month; moldy food in the office fridge is all the rage.

Today I discover a pair of moldy mangoes and a moldy half-burrito, as well as a stale cupcake with a single bite mark. I’m not sure which Einstein in this office decided not only that he or she didn’t want more than a bite of cupcake, but that it was also a good idea to refrigerate said leftover cupcake over the weekend, just in case he or she might want it at a later date.

As debasing a task as it is to clean out the refrigerator, there is one good thing I pull from the experience. I find an unopened bottle of champagne—a remnant from that first fateful cupcake and champagne party.

Henceforth, I am establishing the new refrigerator order, though I will not send it out in an office memo: she who cleans the fridge shall lay claim to its spoils. And by this I mean the champagne bottle is going into my bag right now. Taking it to my fallout shelter in case of emergency.