AnonymousCoworker

Some things are difficult, like, say, cursive with your non-dominate hand, quantum physics, parallel parking Republican-agenda, foreign-made SUVs, and, oh, (twiddling fingers) let’s think of a really really difficult one. Aha: making a bag of microwave popcorn.

Now, we had it tough growing up. Our kitchen had the original 70s-era microwave from when the house was erected (heh), with its rolling dial to set how much time you wanted your TV dinner to cook. Pre-programmed buttons for meat, popcorn, defrost? Forget it. Throw in dinner, dial ‘er up and get the pregnant ladies far, far away. A little trial and error here and there, a couple of burnt meatloafs, (meatloaves?) but you learn to work the dial.

Back then, of course, microwaves weren’t even thought of as a method to birth popcorn; KERNELS actually had to be thrown in a pot and they magically became delicious, buttery popcorn a few minutes later. Maybe your rich friend’s hot, leggy mom bought the JiffyPop, but that was the novelty.

So you get older, you master the JiffyPop, when along come kernels-in-a-bag, with handy instructions printed right there on the cover! At first it was difficult to you know, listen until the kernels pop 2-3 seconds apart and then quickly take the scalding bag out of the microwave. Play it risky and you’re handling a crispy bag, my friend. Just when you’ve mastered the pull-out (heh) then the microwave industry people say, let’s put pre-programmed buttons for POPCORN on the keypad, and sell more microwaves! It’ll be idiot proof! (Except for those idiots who still might forget to take the bag out of the plastic, or place the bag wrong-side-up on the rotating tray.)

And so you adjust, and realize that hey, this microwave popcorn stuff is pretty easy (and that all this popcorn might be why your fingers are the size of sausages) and then you don’t really think about it ever again because it just becomes rote and secondary to more important things like ‘a banging the ladies.

Until the one day many years later, after you’ve found your lady and hitched on to a mortgage, you realize that maybe that learning curve never really flattens out for some people. You’re buried far within the cube farm, processing your TPS report, hoping that Lumburgh doesn’t find you, when the most rancid stench infiltrates your nostrils, burning every hair it passes. On one hand you think this is pretty cool because you might not have to shave the rest of the week, but on the other, your eyes are beginning to sting pretty bad.

You stand and scan the vast expanse as other heads pop up like gophers from their holes. The source is quickly identified by the swirl of smoke coming out of the breakroom and the Guy From Accounting pulling Orville’s smoldering remains from the grave. From the looks of it, the bag never stood a chance.

And then, the sprinklers.

Asshat probably can’t even do quantum physics, but he did get you a ½ day workday.