The Office Potluck


You all know the drill on how a potluck gets started. Every office has a Marge. You know Marge, she’s the gal with the hot pink lip liner and camel toe. Marge smells like an army of gardenias just shit pollen all over her cubicle. Yeah, her. Every month she somehow finds a reason to send out a mass email announcing an office wide potluck.

Subject: ***POTLUCK to bid JOHHNY BOY a fond adieu!***
Please join us in the break room all day Friday with a special dish of your choice to share in celebrating our dearest John John and wish him and his new family well in Florida! Signup sheet is on my desk!
Too blessed to be stressed,

First off, who is this John you speak of? Even if I did know the guy, I certainly wouldn’t want to rub in the fact that he is moving with his on-the-way-to-obese wife and kids to FLORIDA, of all places. Did no one tell him that Florida is where old people go to die and traitors go to sell-out? (I’m from Cleveland, so yeah, fuck you LeBron.) I want no part in cooking for this poor sucker’s funeral. Secondly, this is an “all day” event? C’mon now. If the boss man wouldn’t even let me take a half day to cash in on my Botox Groupon, I know he isn’t going to let a bunch of lackluster employees shove spinach and artichoke dip down their gullets from 9 to 5.

I search for the “not attending” reply button, but can’t find it, so I do what any responsible business person does when receiving an email from a coworker: delete it immediately. Great, now that I’m done with that I can get back to pinning on my Fantasy Wedding Pinterest page.

The office for the rest of the week runs as per usual. No work is getting done, everyone is miserable and dying a slow, corporate death. When Friday rolls around, it’s game on. I strut into the office in my cuter than normal clothes. Since I know I’ll be slamming vodka soda’s in T-minus eight hours with other desperate twenty-somethings looking to hookup, I’ve got to look bangable.

Then…all the sudden, BAM. It hits me. The scent. The hot, spicy, thick aroma of the potluck. I use my scarf to cover my nose. WHO IS THE ASSHOLE WHO BROUGHT THE CHILI?! I’m gagging. Bringing a vat of fucking homemade chili into an office should be a crime against humanity. Oh God, my hair already smells like chili (girls know what I’m talking about here, bonfire smell, that lasts for two showers…at least). My perfectly sculpted sock-bun is going to reek of a smell similar to what my elderly pug excretes after I feed him table scraps.

There’s no way to stop it. One by one, coworkers waddle through the door carrying a vast array of increasingly potent smelling dishes. The only thing to do his hunker down in my cube and pray that Nelson from IT shows up soon, because as a former OSU lineman, he is the only one I can count on to scarf down the offensive chili before 1pm – giving me just enough time to air out my hair/clothes/skin/shoes before braving happy hour tonight. Throughout the day I’m forced to fend off obnoxious coworkers insisting I try their culinary creations. Each time I have to get more creative.

“Sorry, I can’t. I’m allergic.”

“Thanks for offering, but I’m fasting for child soldiers in Uganda.”

“No thank you. Hummus is my trigger food.”

“I have to pass. The fetus hates avocados.”

Potlucks always end the same way. One person finds a cat hair in the guacamole, another person finds a pube in the buffalo chicken dip, and EVERY person finds themselves fighting for alone time in the bathroom so their anuses may rid them of their sins.

Once the clock strikes five, I make a mad dash for my car in the parking lot, passing up all the idiots carrying their slow-cookers and kitchen-aid platters. As I speed away, I can’t help but think that tomorrow the chili culprit will wake up with seriously grotesque fumes encased in their vehicle, while my car, with any luck, will reek of low standards, latex, and bad decisions, just the way I like it.

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