TONS OF CRUNCHY GOODNESS!

I am in receipt of an e-mail that starts off with the following very misguided sentence: "In an effort to keep us all familiar with our largest retailers, we are organizing trips to Bay Area Wal-Marts, Targets ....... "

Huh?

Why do I need this? I'm a pencil pushing, bean counting, irritable (but detail-oriented and brilliant) accounts receivable worker bee - I do not need any more familiarity with our largest retailers. I am not going to affect the outcome of any bitch-fights the sales department starts with these companies, nor do I need any more information on our biggest customers. So please guys, treat me like a mushroom on this. Go off and have your own happy little day out, eat your chain brand pizza from a storefront facing a large parking lot afterwards, and have yourselves a big, BIG 36 ounce delicious carbonated soft-drink! With extra ice! You deserve it!
Just include me out.


Unfortunately, I cannot fight this. Entirely without any input or consultation I have been included on a list which says "Target Colma".

With what? A tactical nuclear device?

Oh, you mean I'm supposed to get my middle-aged butt over to a big box in Colma. Shoot. A mall surrounded by the gazillion graves for which Colma is famous. Best place to stick a stiff in nine counties. Hundreds of thousands of satisfied cadav...stomers. Lots for less.


Additionally, y'all want me to fill out a questionnaire about the experience which was written by a ten year old. I didn't know we hired ten year olds. Did one of you "smart" marketing midgets farm out the writing of this thing to your kid brother? Special-Ed Ted? Couldn't you at least have proofread the darn thing afterwards?


Seriously, I wonder about the folks who go to Colma. Visit graves and shop for a six-month supply of toilet paper - who plans that for a fun-filled weekend?
What twisted multi-tasker considers scrubbing a headstone a good excuse to purchase a case of turkey franks and four dozen two-litre bottles of soda? Digging up the belladonna from little Maisy's patch equates to a frozen twenty-four unit box of mummified chickens? A bunch of flowering banewort on Mabel's marble slab earns you thirty kilopacks of niblets embalmed in high-salt breading? Giant party-size bags of Tastee-Krisp Kornpoos™ among the moss and yews? Crypts, lychs, and teevee dinners?

These are the kinds of mental associations that normal people should not automatically make, don't you think?

There you are, eating a Hungry Jack's Generous Portions Turkey And Gravy Dinner, when suddenly you remember grand-dad after that incident with the wood-chipper. The scene at the morgue identifying the... left-overs. The open casket funeral (whose idea was that?!?!). The creaky coffin with the shifting weight. Cousin Gunther clutching the pine-box and screaming that he was "staying with gramps forever, don't TOUCH me, you savage beasts!" Jake proposing marriage to Belle in the car on the way back.

You fork some more Hungry Jack turkey breast into your maw, and chew thoughtfully. You always did like dear old grand-dad. He was.... juicy.


Oh wait, that's the turkey.


Salty, too.


The e-mail ends by telling us that each team has twenty dollars mad money, and we should have fun. Exclamation mark.
Which is exceedingly disturbing.

Far from me to know any more about such ideas of fun. Sickos.