The Cubicle Diaries VI: Stanley Cup hangover

Losing the Stanley Cup is obviously not on a single team’s list of goals for the year. I don’t think Boston’s General Manager Peter Chiarelli began the season with the mindset of “I’m going to assemble a team that is only good enough to lose in the Stanley Cup Finals to a superior hockey team.” But, that is what happened.

While the Blackhawks may have been playing wounded as well, the Bruins were hit especially hard by the injury bug. They lost one of their best faceoff men when Gregory Campbell suffered a broken leg in a heroic shot block attempt.

Assistant captain Patrice Bergeron was playing with a separated shoulder, torn rib cartilage, broken ribs, and a punctured lung. The list of bruised and battered warriors goes on.

A loss is a loss, however, and the tense and sensitive feelings stemming from such a heartbreaking loss in Game 6 of the finals manifested themselves in my office this past week.

Located just thirty minutes from the hub of hockey, my work was interestingly impacted by the previous weekend’s events.

No one spoke on Monday.

Considering its status as a bustling and expanding business, I’m assuming all necessary communicating was done over email...? With the exception of a few awkward, “Am I next in line to use the microwave, or you?” encounters, I swear to God it was as quiet as the board meeting must have been when David Chase, producer of The Sopranos, suggested they end the series with a highly ambiguous and enigmatic scene.

Tuesday was not much better.

It began just as Monday had, with little to no verbal communication. (Anna knew not to open her damn mouth, for the sake of her own existence.) And then Jimmy the highly metrosexual front door secretary called to me, “Ooh Jake, how’d you like to go for a drive?”

Now, before any of you take me for a homophobic pig, I am no such thing. Instead, I interpreted his question far more dangerously. I thought that the office had finally reached a boiling point and that they were just going to take the summer intern out into the woods and shoot him to release all that repressed hate and anguish.

My hyperbolic mind began imagining myself as a modern day Old Yeller. The company is eliminating what they don’t need, and deem me an expendable, diseased, aging golden retriever. I shuffled out to the front desk as I consciously felt the saliva in my mouth turning into foam. Was I going to bite the secretary? What is happening to me?gavel3

“Can you drive this package over to our boss’s house? He only lives twenty minutes away and this steak will go bad if we leave it here. I don’t know why they delivered it here in the first place.”

It was then that I knew I had gone far too many nights with just five or fewer hours of sleep. You know you’re overtired when you actually think you’re a rabid animal.

I felt so poor just driving through this village. I could tell there were people looking out their windows and watching their property value decline as I, an unworthy peasant, was tarnishing their street with my pennilessness.

When at last I had returned to the office from my jaunt to what seemed like a mystical, previously undiscovered land where the streams run wild with gold fish and the trees give life to rich harvests of fresh Benjamin’s, I returned to my boring chair at my boring desk in my boring office that I share with boring Anna.

Although, calling her boring would imply that she had kept the status quo of silence and just acknowledged my presence with a nod or something. But no.

“Did your hockey team lose the trophy?”

Dear. God.

Featured image courtesy of Flickr/mandybelle311

This blog and all of its previous entries have been completely satirical in their intent. All names have been changed, but to be honest - half of the people you've come to know and love were completely made up. Also, much of my content was made up to entertain you wonderful readers because, let's be honest, who wants to read about me actually doing work at work.

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Jake Miller