Tuesday, September 6, 2011

The Green Green Grapes of Home

Upon quitting one of my audio jobs, the owner and his staff became a little hostile. Deciding that I was an ungrateful wretch to follow my retiring boss to new digs, they tried to make my life hell. The truth is, they were really angry at him and not me, but as he'd offered to bring me along they assumed he needed me, and so I became a target of their angst as well. In their zeal, they sent a few letters to the CFO of the new corporation threatening lawsuits if I were to divulge any proprietary information.

They'd given me far too much credit, I was a tiny fish in a huge pond. Beyond that, because of my autistic nature, any proprietary information I might have gleaned from working with them went in one ear and out the other; what the hell did I care how many Buicks were sold in 1982 in Somalia, and why would they think I'd be running off to tell the Oldsmobile people all about that secret?

All they accomplished was to red flag me to the new corporate heads before I'd even taken the position, something that I spent 3 years living down, walking on eggshells as best I could. So......I was a bit pissed.

I went to the local florist and bought a dozen long stem roses in a box. On the way home I handed them out one by one to any woman that came within my sight. I just wanted the box and didn't want to explain what for and I always like making purdy gurls smile.

I filled it to the gills with nice, juicy green grapes and wrote a little poem as follows:

On a lunch hour dark and dreary there I pondered weak and weary
legalese describing my own vassalage so dour
I surmised that I did little to deserve this wrath and spittle
I can but assume these misplaced grapes of wrath are sour.

Addressed to the "creative vice president" who had now poked me in the eye, I plastered my name clearly on the box and sent it fed ex. It cost a ton, 6 pounds of grapes are heavy and I'd had to reinforce the box.

The recipient called in a crack team of creative directors to decide whether to call the bomb squad or not. As I heard it from a friendly mole, no one would get within 20 feet of the box; but no one would admit they were frightened either. That was worth the cost right there though I have to admit, it had never occurred to me that people would think me capable of sending explosives to an office building. Sometimes a good laugh takes a little hissy fit to get started, and I'm just twisted enough to think that was funny.

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