I enjoy cooking appetizers. Given the situation, I decided to bring something cold. I decided on an array of marinated cheeses, lightly covered in a mixture of olive oil and white wine vingear, kissed with delictable morsels of green onion, sun dried tomatoes, and garlic. These fine, marinated cheeses are served atop the finest crackers available at my local grocer.

I responded that I would be brining this culinary delight. About two hours later, the email went out summarizing who was bringing what. I was horrified to see my name, followed by "cheese and crackers".

Hold the fucking phone, muchacho! That shit doesn't jive. There's a world of difference between some slices of Kraft on top of a wheat-thin and the delictible array of marinated cheeses that I am providing. That's like going to Germany and ordering a sausage made from the finest, grain fed pork and special spices, rolled on the thighs of the most nordic virgins, and then going home and telling everyone you had a hotdog.

My marinated cheeses are talked about the world over. I lovingly select only the finest sharp cheddar and cream cheese. I cut each square of cheese perfectly - each exactly 3/8 of an inch thick - and arrange them in a pattern I have developed over six years to maximize the cheese-to-marinade exposure. I cover the cheese in their dish with a combination of coverings to ensure proper ventilation while preventing drying. My marinade recipe is a coveted secret known only to myself. The recipe is locked in a special cabinet and the key to that cabinet is implanted above my right aorta and shall be released to a chosen heir at the time of my death.

"Cheese and crackers"! You've got gall, office assistant, to say I brought "cheese and crackers". I'm sorry anyone dared to eclipse the majesty of your "taco dip", you fucking twat. Yeah, I didn't see that listed on the all-employee email as "a plate of fucking cream cheese with taco seasoning in it covered in whilted lettuce I probably found in the dumpster behind the Piggly Wiggly".