Back when I was a bitch for hire, I sometimes didn’t want to go to work. Okay, every day I didn’t want to go to work, but often, this urge to not go was so especially strong. I wondered, what would I do in exchange to not have to go? Would I put on a cow costume and suck on a cow’s teat? Would I eat a caterpillar? In my desperation, I fantasized about some kind of office you could call that would exchange unpleasant actions for missing shifts.
“You say you want to miss this dinner shift on Tuesday? Let me just enter that for you… All right. That will cost you the consumption of two deci liters of urine.”
The horror of working in a restaurant is that you have to drag your ass to work TWICE a day. Once in the morning for the lunch shift (still feasible with the lure of coffee) but once more in the afternoon for the dinner shift. Oh how low my spirits would sink.
Because he is such a good mate, sometimes J, seeing my hangdog expression would offer to call my sushi restaurant anonymously and report a bomb in the tuna.
Fast forward several years later, when we were supposed to meet at 7:45 for dinner yesterday. J arrived fashionably late, a little bit sweaty and disoriented. “Don’t get mad,” he said right away. “I tried to come on time, but I couldn’t. There was a bomb in the tuna so they closed down some of the subway lines.”
Me: … … … wut?
Yep, it seems that a leftover WWII bomb was discovered at a construction site just off the middle of town yesterday–how insane is that?! The place where it was discovered is a mere three kilometers or so from my house. Apparently, after trying to defuse it, they decided that the safest way to get rid of the bomb was to detonate it in a controlled blast. There was an evacuation of residents, shattered windows, a raging tumescent fireball and everything… Now if only this bomb had been discovered in the basement of my sushi restaurant four years ago on a day when I realllllly did not want to go to work!
More images and the article from Spiegel here.