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Hoagie Gate

Back in the mid 90’s, I worked for a  small but growing company.   We burgeoned to about 100 employees about the same time that email was brand new corporate technology.

At one point, we received an email that was sent to “Everyone”.   It was from some new guy who was recently hired in our Appraisal Department.  He sent the blast email because he was trying to sell hoagies for his kids PTA.

Even though most of us didn’t know him, the prospect of a cheap hoagie lunch at some point in the future sounded good. The new guy sold 82 hoagies via this email. He sent another email about how happy we all made him.  He must’ve broken a hoagie selling record or something.  He promised to deliver the hoagies in two more Fridays.

That second Friday arrived and we were all looking forward to a hoagie luncheon.  We arrived. We heard nothing about hoagies.  I mean not a peep.

I called the new hoagie guys boss.  Soon after he picked up the phone, I got he distinct impression that I wasn’t the first hoagie lover to call him.

He said, “Dude – He called off today”.

I said, “You mean Nicky New Hoagie Guy called off?”

He said, “Yeah”.

I said, ‘Is he sending his wife in with the hoagies or something?”

He said, “I have no idea, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

All 82 of us made alternate lunch arrangements.

All 82 of us talked shit on the hoagie guy.

Fast forward to Monday.  Hoagie guy sends another blast email that says, “Hey, I’m sorry I was sick on Friday. I have all of your hoagies at my desk. Please drop off your $4 and pick up your hoagie.”

Nobody obliged him. I mean c’mon. He picked these hoagies up on Thursday night for a Friday delivery.  It’s now Monday.  These things are now a minimum of 5 days old. Moreover, let’s assume that a regular guy has a regular size fridge, and that regular guy sold 82 hoagies, they ain’t gonna fit in his fridge.

Ick. Count me out.

Hell, everyone counted themselves out.

Hoagie guy sent another blast email saying, “Hey, you all promised to buy these here hoagies, and if you don’t pay for them, I’ll have to pay for them out of pocket”.

I responded, “Hey Hoagie Guy.  We wanted hoagies on Friday when there was a chance that they wouldn’t poison us.  Count me out. “

I supposed that many others responded similarly.

A few hours later, we all receive a blast email from the Big Boss Man.  It says, “Mister Hoagie Guy has submitted his resignation.   If you have any non-hoagie business to discuss with him please contact <InsertSupervisorsName>. . . “

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Oscar the Crop Dusting Grouch

As a kid, my favorite TV character was Oscar the Grouch.  Okay, it really was probably Grover, but Oscar the Grouch was a close second.  Just last week, the puppeteer who ‘was’ Oscar the Grouch retired.  I was secretly sad.  I mean, I always like him, and I always wondered about him, I mean:

Why was he grouchy?

Why did he live in a garbage can?

Where did he go to the bathroom?

What did that garbage can smell like?

Anyway, there’s this young guy at work.  He’s like 30 something.  He often makes me think of Oscar the Grouch because he’s always complaining.  If being a curmudgeon was an Olympic sport, he’d take home at least a silver.    It’s like he’s practicing to be the world’s grumpiest old man.

So, when Oscar’s puppeteer announced his retirement, I was really thinking about Oscar all day.

As I was pondering what that garbage can must have smelled like, my young curmudgeon coworker walked by.  Slowly, but completely, the musky aroma of a silent but deadly fart engulfed our cube farm.

The young curmudgeon had properly timed his SBD move so that he was no longer in the office when the stifling aroma hit.

It was Killer.  It smelled as if he had been gluttonously feasting on ketchup covered onion smothered hot dogs with massive sides of baked beans, broccoli, and roasted Brussel sprouts, all washed down with a 12 pack of Gennessee Cream Ale.

Three cock roaches crawled out from under desks and coughed and gagged as they ran for the door.

About 20 minutes later he came back to his desk with a  piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe.  I blurted out, “Dude – You about killed us with the crop-dusted fart!”.

He sheepishly said, “Huh?  I didn’t fart.”.

The two thirds of the office that sat near me stared at him.  I stared at him.  He looked at his shoes.  We knew.  He knew.

I now not only know what Oscar the Grouch’s trash can must smell like, but I’m also worried about if and when the hairs inside my nose will grow back.