The Philosophy of Vomit

Friday night, Badvertiser had a Halloween party—a nice, morale-boosting, co-worker-bonding experience, something I had been looking forward to attending. Especially because I found someone I actually like in the office--a sweet girl named Missouri, my new lunch buddy and confidant.

I had been sending out memos in anticipation of the Halloween party all week. I prepared a nice mix of unpoisoned candy. I even made a roasted garlic dip from scratch, knowing full well that the fastest way to Lenny and friends’s hearts is through their stomachs.

But, fatefully, something came up where I could not attend said party, perpetuating my feeling of being the office slave.

This feeling was underscored by the state of the office Monday morning. There was a spread of vodkas, rums, tequilas, and mixers on the supply counter, and there were Badvertiser logoed squirt water bottles everywhere. One of the squirt bottles was labeled “tequila shot” in permanent marker. Other ones were covered in drunken Cyrillic scribble.

By the time I got into the office, everyone was already hard at work, heads down in their cubicles. Clearly, no one was interested in sharing the responsibility for cleaning up after the part—whatever happened to communism?—which left me, an unattendee, to be the sole janitor of the situation.

I hoped that my acquiescence wasn’t going to be mistaken as initiative by my coworkers. To remedy this misunderstanding, I considered chugging a bottle of vodka, vomiting all over the carpet and all over Lenny’s laptop, and leaving, never to return.

But instead, I cleaned up quickly and quietly, not choosing to make such a scene. For who would be the one to clean up my vomit? It would just contradict the point I would’ve been intending to make by vomiting in the first place.

And thus, the philosophy of vomit.