By: Captain Deathbeard, Special Guest Pirate
Arr! Avast, yon lily livered 3.5 bilge rats! Captain Deathbeard am I and weary am I as I just pulled me vessel into the Isle of Tortuga, only for a local wench to fetch me a bottle with this message inside:
Dear Captain Deathbeard,
I work in a mid-size office with approximately 25 other co-workers. For the most part, we all get along well. Everyone is kind, courteous, polite and in general, we all care about providing a safe and comfortable work environment.
However, there is one person who has become a problem. Every day, I go through the effort of packing myself a lunch. You see, I struggle with my weight and I want to know exactly how many calories are in my food. So, I get up early, pack just the right amount and bring it to work so I don’t fall into the trap of leaving the office for fast food or take out. A moment on the lips and a lifetime on the hips, am I right?
Anyhoodles, for the past three weeks, Karen from accounting has been stealing my lunches. I confronted her about this in the break room. I pointed out that she was eating out of a Tupperware container with my name on it and she said that I’m wrong and that also Karen is just her nickname and her real name is also my name and that we share the same name. I don’t think this is true. Also, she was eating the same things that I distinctly remember packing.
I want my plan to bring lunch to work to be a success, but I’m tired of going through all the effort only to have Karen steal the efforts of my labors. I’m thinking about going to HR with a complaint, but I don’t want to be a tattle tale. Should I file a formal complaint? Maybe I should just give up on bringing my own lunches and eat out. What should I do?
Frustrated in Jacksonville
Arr! Ahoy yon Frustrated! Ye sound like a lovely lass and were it not for the raging syphilis coursing through me longsword, I’d batten down yer hatches and keel yer haul till the day Davey Jones’ locker is opened, yo ho yo ho.
But admittedly, yar, I agree that ye be needin’ to skip the rich grub that be offered in the local taverns and bring ye own sustenance from yer cabin yerself. Arrr, I been doin’ all manner of misdeeds and mischief for many a dark night, so I have no cause to judge ye with the watchful eye of the devil’s boatman, but I peeled me eyes at the picture of yeself that ye enclosed in yon letter and me first reaction was, “Arrr! Whale off the starboard bow! Grab the spears and throw them posthaste! May the creator guide our throwin’ hands steadfast and true, yar!”
But then I realized ye were a human and not a whale. A shame, most certain, for ambergris fetches a pretty penny in the perfurmery market. Arrr, women do enjoy any opportunity to smell like the bile of a wretched sea monster, yar yar yar.
Frustrated, tis up to thee and all men and wenches must make their own minds in this life but I say if ye ever wish fer any sort of reputable gentleman to make merry with your fetid lady cave, then heed me warnin’ – ye must lose yon lard and ye must pack thine own vittles.
Avast! Gather round the lantern and look into me eyes, the eyes that have seen certain doom and lived to tell the tale. Know what I say next to ye is true. Arr, yon Frustrated, ye must get in Karen from accounting’s face and spin the yarn below thusly:
“Arr, yon Karen from accounting! Vile, despicable hag witch that ye are, remove thine skeletal fingers from me provisions and hang ye head low for thine treachery! Art thou daft, wench, to not surmise that we be part and parcel of a kindred crew, that we be all aboard the same boat, and when ye sabotage mine efforts to not bear a likeness to a great whale, ye not only do me harm but harm to thine self, for if I fail then yon mid-size office fails and if that fails then ye fail!”
Yar, barring that, I’d advise to rattle a sharp saber in the hag’s general direction, threaten her profusely and perhaps take her family hostage aboard thine ship, making yon Karen aware that her kith and kin will only be returned if yon lunch is returned safely or, if yon lunch already has bite marks, then only when yon Karen provides an alternative lunch of equal value.
Arrr, but I hear for the purposes of the laws of man that I cannot advise ye thusly and only kind words of reason will do. Arr, ridiculous as I always let me cutlass do me talkin’ fer me, but I suppose ye live in a strange age when women run the show, yar.
Ahoy, Frustrated! A final thought. Have ye considered buryin’ thine lunch? Simply pack ye baloney sandwiches and apple slices into a wooden crate, locked with a lock forged from iron and adorned with a skull and cross bones.
Dig a hole so deep that it leads ye to fear that ye might come out in the Orient if ye were to dig any further. Arr! Blast ye, yon PC hipsters! ‘Tis but a trifle for me to say, “Orient” fer I be from the 1600s, mateys. Arr.
Bury ye lunch and be sure to mark its location on a map with an X. When ye are ready to feast on the innards of ye store bought yogurt cup, fetch thine shovel and obtain thine delicious reward.
Arr, just don’t let ye map fall into the wrong hands…and especially keep it away from that bitch Karen, arr.