Pigs On The Wing

This is my Friday office daydream:

An enormous, stuffed pig is wheeled in over the cubicle farm on tracks in the ceiling I had never noticed before. It’s like a Pink Floyd show, without the music and contact high. It stops over by Kirsten’s cube and sways precariously.

And then Jeff (who frankly always seemed a little unstable), comes charging at it with a mini baseball bat. He has this oddly piercing and warbling war cry and this look in his eyes that resembles that of a man being carried down river by a current stronger than he had expected. Jeff takes a swing at that pig. When nothing happens, he takes another swing. When the “destruction” that follows can only be described as a mild disturbance to the pig’s swinging, Jeff puts his all into it and swings once more.

The pig splits open and out pours hundreds of paper airplanes in a variety of sizes and folds. They go immediately into attack mode. This sounds more impressive than it actually is as these things have no engines or weapons.

But those front points do manage to get into a few eyes, causing bewildered cries of pain; there are paper cuts aplenty. The casualties befall both sides however. At one point a smaller plane crashes straight into a bamboo stalk on Kristel’s desk and crumples. Tiny paper bodies fall out of the torn fuselage and litter her desk like it was a linoleum Gettysburg.

They bleed correction fluid by the way.

By the time lunch comes around there are fires scattered throughout the 4th floor. The survivors of the attack, which was all of us (well, all of us except for Jeff who was killed by three coworkers who took the opportunity during the confusion), wander around bleary eyed and scared. As a safeguard, we go to the piñata store down the street and burn it to the ground.