It’s moments like this that make me hate my position in life.
You may be dazzled by the Comic Sans font, but I assure you, this is no party – this is a group march straight to hell. Not only does this happen at least twice a month, but after the standard “Happy Birthday to You”, there is a sliver of awkward silence followed by some god-awful G-rated joke that everyone pretends is comedy gold.
Then, the CEO, in all of his PG edge-pushing glory makes a joke about something on the birthday card (each one a special photoshop of someone’s face in a picture that represents an inside joke maybe three people get but everyone acts as if they’re in on), and everyone’s face turns brown as they laugh at something cataclysmic even to the pulse of something as beige as office-humor.
I’d be lying if I said my happiness couldn’t be bought with cake. But trust me, there is none to be had. Plus, with Bob throwing his insulin needles in the garbage, it’s probably best not to take any chances in a place with such fine minds.
Whitneyism 