It lived in the microwave oven

The lunchroom is empty… or so it appears to be. Little clicks and hisses stir within during the middle of the day. There is a presence, a sentient being quietly hidden in some tucked away corner of the company, lingering, waiting patiently in its little cave to surprise an unsuspecting victim. I of course am talking about the collective culinary residue of an entire workforce; a gunk which has been consistently bombarded with micro waves for the better part of a quarter of a year.

It’s the microwave and whatever the hell is living within it.



If you’ve worked at a few agencies, there is at least one vivid memory of that time you opened the microwave oven door and almost passed out from the combined assault of a putrid stench and a visual to do it justice. You jumped back, pressing yourself against the wall, began to cough uncontrollably and snorted enough hand sanitizer to guarantee that whatever tried to make itself up your nose to eat at your brain was killed… you also saw how the next person didn’t care, popped their lunch in the oven, pressed a minute-thirty into the keypad, and proceeded to eat their funk spore infused meal.

Hygiene seems to be amoral in many ad kitchens. From the clogged sinks to those crack house sponges, being clean seems to almost be a sin sometimes. It’s as if being creative entitles you to be a fucking pig. And no, it’s not just creatives since pretty much anyone can be a closet pig, but it’s alarming to see the rate of people who can’t lift a finger just to have things be a little cleaner. I’m not talking about spic and span clean, I’m talking about minimum requirement to not be shut down by a health inspector clean.

Seriously, I don’t need to open an oven just to see what the residues of what looks like a demonic cumshot, or troll pimple splatter in the interior of where I’m supposed to heat my food. So kindly, clean the fuck up.

Cheers