Viva booby traps

As boring, depressing, claustrophobic, ominous and decrepit as this building is, sometimes the human spirit overcomes its power and shines through as a brief reminder that no, we won't all die here in a windowless coffin of stained newspapers and absurd sports sales analogies.

Such was the case this morning minutes after discovering that Fidel, the meanest queen ginger to ever be called a Chronnie, had somehow manufactured a sliding door on his cubicle. He's always been excessively vocal about what is his around the general office area and what others are not allowed to touch and/or use, but installing a sliding door to help his Dwight Complex that he is somehow more important than his position actually is and requires a private wall from the common folk is impressive.

It should go without saying that he was non too pleased (maybe in the sense that an eminence would respond when her subject refuses to kiss her ring) to discover that someone was not as impressed with his remodeling and had somehow sealed his sliding door from the inside, hid all his ginger trinkets from his desk and taped his drawers shut.

After stampeding around the rows like an angry, red, gay rhinoceros trying to pin the culprit, Fidel is pissed and morale is high. At least until we're all laid off.