Dear...Microwave

Dear Workplace Microwave:

I know you arrived here in that nice box all clean and shiny and scentless. I know you came here to blast our miscellaneous food and snacks– Lean Cuisines, Mama Mia Pizza, Weird Bob’s forever “tuna”, Same Sweater Sandy’s odd casseroles that predictably contain huge mushrooms, various rancid fish ensembles, old coffee, plain water and popcorn–with your low levels of radiation in a jiffy so that we can eat and drink within mere moments of pushing your buttons.  I know you came to serve us and here we abuse you with our awful carelessness, our hurried schedules, our clueless hygiene, our “My wife always cleans it at home”-ness. 

I would like to apologize for all of the morons who, even though they’re over 34 years old, still do not grasp that styrofoam and certain plastics such as Saran wrap should not be heated AT ALL, let alone for three whole minutes, which to you, dear microwave, is like eternal heat. 

I specifically apologize for the fool that once put aluminum foil inside of you, programmed two minutes and then walked away to gossip about his high-five barbecue grilling skills. I feel so sorry for you when tomato products explode on your forehead and get stuck there for centuries. Or when caramel syrup-like spills become one with your glass rotator plate because no one will dare clean you. At least once a week six people will predictably scorch their popcorn within your walls even though it says right there on the bag DO NOT EXCEED RECOMMENDED POPPING TIME.  Surely you dread the very face of Orville Redenbacher. 

I do my best to keep you clean not because I’m a clean freak or germ phobe or anything but just as much because the very thought of random coworkers’ gook hoovering over my precious lunch gives me the willies.  I have an idea. I will circulate an interoffice memo–anonymously, of course–to everyone under the roof. I’ll especially make sure I put one face-up on the most serious offenders’ desks.

Thank you for serving us. We don’t deserve you and your radiation upon our vittles.

 

Signed,

Perturbed in CubicleVille

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