You drag yourself into the weekly Leadership 'Level 10' Meeting, fully prepared to hate this morning. As you enter the room, you notice a bright pink box. Your heart rate quickens as you lift the lid, and there before you are twelve assorted halos of happiness just waiting for devouring.
But then you hear her -- the Doughnut Slayer. Her shrill voice wafts down the hall like nails on a blackboard. She hasn't even reached the doorway, and already you grab your delicate treat and dive into your seat. Looking down you noticed that you grabbed a plain cake ring. You wince and try to replace it with the Boston Creme you really wanted, but it's too late.
She walks in with purpose, ready to proclaim her doughnut intentions.
"All right, everybody," she booms, making sure everyone in the office and some outside passerby's hear her. "I'm not hungry enough for a whole doughnut. I couldn't possibly finish one whole doughnut. How can I rectify this situation?"
She then strides right up to the box and sticks her right index finger into her mouth while drooling all over the baked goods. Then, with the quickness of a rattlesnake striking its prey, her hands shoots out of her mouth and into the French Cruller. If you listened close enough, you could probably hear a sugary scream as the pastry gets ripped apart, The mauler saunters to the conference table, licking her fingers, and carrying a pristine half of a doughnut. You don't have to check the box to know that the other half didn't fare so well.
Others start to filter in, excited that the pink box has made an appearance. However, once they spy the Splitter, the whole mood changes.
"I couldn't fathom eating so many calories," she would exclaim. No one who came to the box would be denied the tale of how her appetite and waistline were saved by her own self-sacrifice. Of course nobody else wanted to be the tubby-toes of the group, so they also mangle their own doughnut. Once the meeting ends, all that's left in the pink box is a doughnut diorama of the Battle of Saratoga,
Think of all the senseless doughnuts that were needlessly torn in two. Only half of their bodies ever find their true destiny in the stomach. The other lay with a gigantic thumb print, growing more and more stale, waiting for the day when some intern throws them out along with the coffee grounds and old printer cartridges. Oh, the dough-manity!
All this carnage just for some fake humble-brags of self control. We all know Shrill Voice scouts the break room day after day, hoping to pounce on some unsuspecting baked goods. Muffins lose their tops. Cheesecakes keep their crusts. Those pre-cut slits for the bagels? Only mere suggestions. And a half an hour later, she's back ready to kill again.
To prevent any more doughnut atrocities, I have drafted up the Pastry Accords:
Thou shall not cut pastry by any fractional amount unless thou owns an explicit sharing agreement.
Agreement must be made in writing, witnessed by two (2) impartial witnesses, and notarized. Splitsies will happen immediately, and at no time will a reduced piece of baked goods touch the original pastry receptacle. As a contingency, splits will happen with a fork and knife, so at no time will a pastry be seen with a gigantic thumbprint in the crust.
Thou shall divide pastries in silence
At no time shall splitter of the first part or splitter of the second part utter comments like, "I just want a little something sweet," or "I'm trying to low-carb it today," or "I don't want to be a pig," or anything else that attempts to explain why thy pastry must be fractionated.
Any violation of the Accords shall result in severe punishment
First offense: lose pastry privileges for one (1) week's time. Second offense: lose pastry privileges for one (1) month's time and earn a lunch with Phil who will openly discuss his recurring foot fungus problem. Third offense: Immediate firing with a note in the personal file.
Congress should pass of the Pastry Accords as soon as possible. Of course, immigration, poverty, education, war and health care comes first. But after that, we need to protect our pastries. Anything else is
*In this scenario the Doughnut Mauler happens to be a woman, but we all know it can just as well be a man. I'm looking at you, Chet!
Jack Grubb writes an incredible blog, Losing the Internets, which is read by at least 37 people and over 2,100 Russian SPAM bots. In his spare time he helps small companies find their marketing voice. Jack currently lives deliberately in Appalachia, Kentucky with his wife, two daughters, Jack Russell and a Lego collection beyond compare.