My lovlie has dropped off the radar. I assume she's been trapped in a meeting someplace. As I cope with this and mull over my fledgling writing career, the clock sneaks around on me. Father Time taps me on the shoulder and informs me that it's time for another product rotation.
Woot! my Patriotic Duty beckons, so I shut down and stow my computer in my briefcase, which I deposit into my locker on the way to the meat cooler. I drag a cart back to my work area and get busy... and three (maybe four) cases of meat later, my work is done.
It's a slow morning. I don't even need to put more ground turkey out yet! So, it's back to the vendor room for another round of mulling things over. I've gotten good at that part.
Feeling a little bit sluggish, I swing by the break room for a cup of coffee. I notice a hand printed sign over the sink. It reads: "WE NEED MONEY FOR THE COFFEE FUND FREELOADER!" How nice. I was going to get mine from the vending machine, but now I'm curious, so I examine the coffee maker. There's a (rather large) fellow sitting behind me who gruffly inquires as to what I might be looking for.
"I'm just trying to figure out where we're supposed to put the money for the coffee fund," I inform him.
He replies by poking a spot on the table in front of him, as though he expects me to just drop money on the open table based on his glorious majesty or something. I ignore him; I don't even know his name. I'm generally not interested in the names of people who act as though the world owes them something. I certainly didn't owe him a thing. I'm not a freeloader, either. I decide I'm not in the mood for coffee and wander back to the vendor room.
I've got stuff to do that excludes getting shaken down for coffee money. I don't drink that much of the stuff anyway.
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