|
I would like to play, but can't think of a single line to add. "... The blue one, next to the fish" sort of gave me writer's block, or at least some form of blockage. (Note to self: Eat more fiber when reading this thread.)
Oh! I have a BM (Brain Movement) .....
Meanwhile, back at the RAF base, Biggles was picking through the office fridge, peeking into brown paper bags, trying to defenestrate whose lunch to appropriate. Snortington's bag contained yogurt and a banana, not a very manly lunch at all. Biggles made a note to ask and tell. Saltenham's bag contained a rugged sandwich of bear meat on whole wheat, a thermos of dirty creek water, and a big slice of Mom's apple pie. Biggles made a note to recommend Saltenham for a commendation.
"That's the sort of rough and ready man we need in this man's air force," he harumphed to himself.
Wandering back to his office in order to eat Saltenham's lunch in privacy whilst he surfed the net to find out what happened on Desperate Housewives last evening, he happened to glance over a cubicle wall at Mrs. Myatake's work station.
"Ingrid, he said, "My dear, why are you crying?"
"Ah, mein Capitan," she said germanically, "My husband is missing. I fear he is in trouble."
"Whatever do you mean? What sort of trouble?"
"Some of his former colleagues from the Japanese mafia located him and he went to speak with them. I haven't heard from him in three days now," she sobbed weepily.
"Hmmm. How did we pass someone with her husband's background through our pre-employment security check?", he wondered administratively, while secretly craving the purloined lunch he still held in his hand and trying to figure a way to get out of this conversation without committing himself to any sort of decision.
"Er, uh, Ingrid dear, dry your eyes. You take a long lunch, and when you get back, type all of this up and email it to me," he improvised impromptuishly.
"Oh thank you, mein Capitan!," she germanically and manically jumped for joy and shouted as she grabbed Biggles around the shoulders and hugged him repeatedly, then hurried out the door to eat her squid puff and pear tart lunch in the employee breakroom, which had much better digital music than the executive breakroom, which only had one lousy house band that played only covers of Alanis Morrissette songs.
"Finally I can eat my, er uh, Saltenham's lunch," Biggles biggled to himself.
|