I feel like my conversations at work get out of hand pretty quickly. Today, for example.
Mike: One more count before you go on vacation. Excited?
Me: Don’t remind me.
Mike: Every Monday afternoon, I get this feeling…that even at such a distance, I’m sensing your blood pressure rising just because you’re thinking about counting things.
Me: If they only wouldn’t open stuff needlessly. That’s the thing I can’t stand. Like those stupid food trays. One hundred and seventy-five to a box, and I have to count them individually, only to find that there are one hundred and seventy-two. Because they HAD to have those three trays–nevermind the other open box I haven’t counted yet…
Mike: You could teach a training class. Have some counting bears to illustrate the suffering of taking inventory on a smaller scale.
Me: Would I have to then inventory the counting bears? Because that would be the last straw. They’d want an open box of each colour.
Mike: You’d want to hurt someone, I see.
Me: In the spirit of maths, we could have a word problem: say I have one bullet, and three needlessly opened boxes of counting bears–
Mike: Wait! I just have to know–if you had two bullets, and we had you taking inventory with Hitler, Stalin, and Toby, would you say you’d shoot Toby twice?
Me: I would shoot whichever of them had opened all the boxes.
Me: They’d better just hope it was boxes of counting bears they opened, and not boxes of bullets. *pause* You should talk to Maggie about not hiring any more time-traveling dictators, too.
Mike: *laughing more* Paris and Kurt will be so disappointed.
Me: There’s only room enough for me here.
Mike: I’ll keep that in mind.