"She's a witch!"

I'm not a witch, though I will become something that rhymes with that if people continue to pop over to my desk with sympathy Valentine Day cards.

"Come see the violence inherent in the system!"

"Help! Help! I'm being repressed!"

Ever since Tuesday I have been receiving e-cards, friendly pats, and sympathetic "tsk, tsk" from my coworkers. One even came up to me and asked if I might visit my ex for the holiday since it is "Valentine's Day, after all".

"She turned me into a newt!"

In this office they have brains of rotten fruit. I'm tempted to grab a nail file, hone my teeth to points and start biting them all.

"'Tis but a flesh wound."

"You've got no arm!"

"I've had worse."

The more I think about it, however, I find myself worrying over the consequences. Though a flying homicidal rampage would certainly make me feel better temporarily, finding myself in jail for the rest of my life wouldn't exactly be my ideal living situation. Especially the interrogation from the police prior to that.

"What is your favorite color?"

"Blue, no, no, wait. AAAHHHHH!"

Though I would get three square meals a day. I cooked Brunswick stew last night, for example, and it turned out wonderful. Now, I like my food spicy (Grab a cold beverage everyone). Unfortunately, it's incredibly spicy and if ingested improperly (i.e. inhale prior to swallowing) it will burn the skin from your esophagus, bring tears to your eyes, and potentially cause birth defects.

"It's a beast with fangs and red eyes."

"It's a bunny!"

I believe it's time for my daily ingestion of sugar and caffeine. *rummages around* Now, where did I put that sledge hammer. If one more person comes up to me and gives me a "gentle and caring" shoulder massage...

"Nee!"

"Did you just say 'Nee!' to that old woman?"

Once again, Papa San is in mortal peril. He has been rodent-napped. There has been a nefarious ring of crime attacking our office and now poor, unwitting, Papa San has become a victim to it.

A fellow coworker is missing his Duke hat. A ransome notice was posted requesting (strangely) only a bag of green M&Ms and a 1/2 lb of kitty litter placed in the breakroom by noon.

I arrived from lunch and found a note: "An eye for an eye. We'll see how long the hamster can last without food". Alas! Poor Papa San!

I have searched high and low to no avail. I have been placed in the harsh glare of guilt by association. Everyone assumes that it was I who stole the Duke hat. Not so, I cry!

Though...I must admit...I do know that the ante will be upped soon, yes, very soon indeed. My female intuition says that a new sign will appear stating the following:

"LEAVE THE WISE AND HONORABLE PAPA SAN ON THE WATER FOUNTAIN AT 2:00PM. IN RETURN FOR YOUR COOPERATION, YOUR HAT WILL BE ANXIOUSLY AWAITING YOUR ARRIVAL ATOP THE FRIDGE IN THE BREAKROOM. IF YOU DO NOT COMPLY, THE HAT WILL BE INCINERATED."

If the devious conspirators do not comply with this note, I do not fear for the safety of Papa San. After all, Papa San has mighty Kung Fu and is currently biding his time to strike out against his captures when they are least suspecting it.

Beware! Papa San shall rise again!

Valentine's Day: After Work - Roll out the drums, boys! *babum, babum*

Work was quite amusing as I spent the majority of it flipping between my reports and blogging with the Teddy Thief aka Ash's Mom. I was in spirits that were quite high - indeed, they were probably inflated and/or induced by the inhalation of large quantities of helium.

I drive home, unlock the door and find my apartment beyond. Or, shall I say, what was left of it. Sam had discovered that I love plants which means that he should love them too. Unfortunately, Sam has a tough love and I found fronds shredded all across the rooms. Roots were tossed willy nilly. Dirt was everywhere on the carpet (and it's brand new! Oh, heart palpitations. Call the medics! MEDIC!).

"Bad dog! Bad, bad dog!" He runs away pretending to be contrite, but I now know the inside of that herbaciously bigoted doggie heart. The plants shall never be safe unless somehow attached to my ceiling.

I begin to clean the dessicated remains of my dearly departed oxygen spewing friends. Chunks here, dirt there, a root. Low and behold as I am cleaning I stumble across some of the spare boxes I had used while moving. Or, shall I say, the tiny nail sized chunks of boxes. *sigh* Clean some more and, "What is this?!" A hunk of vomit sitting meekly behind my living room chair.

In the midst of his maniacal frenzy and rampage of death and destruction, Sam had attempted to devour some of his victims - much like a serial killer taking souvenirs. His victims struck back through the ethereal mists of the afterlife and leapt from his throat to sweet, sweet freedom. Onto my carpet. My new carpet. *twitch*

Excuse me, I need some Scotch.

...Not a Scot, damn it! Get that kilt away from me. And, for heaven's sake man, what are you doing with that sheep?!

Epilogue
As I'm about to type this post, I realize I've worked in this place for longer than I had thought. The coffee doesn't even affect me anymore. Either that or the hole in my stomach has been cauterized by this acidic swill they call 'Folgers'. Folgers has never tasted like this at my house - this stuff melts the enamel from my teeth and burns my nose hairs to prickly stubs. I think the cleaning man is sticking Miracle Grow or Pinesol in the filters at night. We are, after all, at war with one another (refer to #3 post for backstory).

As I Was Saying:
I've been at my current job for almost four years now and the Italian Entity appeared a month after I was hired. I'm going to change his name for the sake of secrecy and since I'm almost half convinced he has ties to the mafia. So, let's call him 'Tony'. Alright, that is too unoriginal. We'll call him 'Inigo Montoya'.

Movie Quote Segue
"You killed my father! Prepare to die!"

Ahem. Sorry about that. Princess Bride, you know. "Inconceivable!" It's impossible not to quote it at random intervals of the day.

Back Again To The Topic At Hand:
Montoya is somewhere around his late seventies to early eighties. When he first started working here it took almost a year to get him to work comfortably with a computer. He still has problems and, as a result, becomes verbally abusive towards inanimate objects at the drop of a hat. Everything will be going smoothly in the office and then, from out of nowhere, "[Insert Italian curses] FUCK! [Insert more Italian curses]" and, inevitably, something gets hurled through the air.

There is something to be said for the fear factor that an eighty year old Italian man can instill in the unwary while cursing vehemently in another language at a keyboard and wearing a belt buckle the size of his head.

I swear this man has some connections somewhere. I'm just waiting for the Valentine's Day Massacre to begin. I can just see him flying across the room towards the server with a sledge hammer and screaming, "And this is the thanks I get?!".

Return to Movie Quotes
"I do not think that word means what you think it does..."

I was driving to Borders today (a bookstore) with my friend Jonesy when I was suddenly struck with an epiphany. *pause for dramatic music, cue red curtain being drawn* I came to the realization that men are like books, but more expensive and irritating as they cannot be placed upon the shelf when their usefulness has run out. How, you ask? Read these following reasons:

The Disturbing Similarities Between Men and Books

1.) A book tells some of the most fantastic stories and none of them turn out to be true.

2.) You can talk to a book all you like, but it won't answer.

3.) You can fall asleep with a book, but it won't snuggle.

4.) If you do fall asleep with a book it will be cold and end up poking you in places you don't want to be poked.

The next few questions come to mind: A book is made of paper and can, therefore, be recycled. Can a man be recycled? Wouldn't that imply that he could be useful for more than one thing? And, if that is the case, could that possibly be considered an oxymoron - man and multiple uses?

The only difference I've found between men and books is in regards to smell. A new book has that sweet freshly cut paper odor and an older book smells like friendly old memories. A man, however, smells like a month old decaying organism has been stuffed up his butt and left to rot, dance and play video games until it's ejected rather rudely into the cold, cruel world. Woe to all that are within the vicinity of a man during this frightening period for your brain cells will still be dying three days later from the stench riddled backlash.

**DISCLAIMER**
Keep in mind, guys, I'm only joking. Somewhat. Hehe.