Workplace Irritations No. 3,742: The Jovial Jaw-Flapping Sandwich Saboteur

Picture the scene: it’s 2pm, you’re in the office and you’ve had the morning from hell. People are buying when they should be selling, profits are down and your blood pressure is up. All of a sudden, your stomach lets out a low growl and you get the feeling that if you don’t eat something in the next 10 minutes you’re going to bite your own hands off. So you head out and grab yourself a sandwich from the local deli. You know, a really nice one with all the crusts cut off (if you’re into that sort of thing). You return to your desk, you delicately unwrap your freshly prepared sarnie and you pause to consider its beauty for a second. “By Jebus, that’s going to taste pretty fricken’ good!” you think to yourself, before you raise it up to your gaping maw. The wondrous aroma floods your nostrils as you bite into it, and the flavours and smells combine to caress your face like a sopping wet flannel dripping with pure loveliness. Joy unbound…until:

“So, what have you got there?”

The dozy bastard at the desk next to you decides to engage you in conversation right at the very point when your chops couldn’t be any more packed full of the delicious sandwich you’ve just this second bitten into. Does he see that you are unable to speak due to having a large culinary explosion going off in your oral cavity? No, of course he doesn’t. He just sits there expectantly waiting for an answer. “A sandwich, you great big moron” comes out as an unintelligible “mmmmmmmfhrrr”, almost as if you’re trying to talk through a pillow. You chew through the mouthful as quickly as you possibly can and swallow a ball of half-chewed sandwich the same size and shape as a ripe Granny Smith just to confirm in clear, concise English words that you are – surprisingly enough – eating a sandwich. Just to demonstrate the action of consuming the aforementioned sandwich, you take a hearty bite and turn back to your PC screen. Big mistake.

“Looks nice. Where did you get it from?”

Is it on purpose, or just bad timing? Who the hell cares? All you know is it’s seriously bloody annoying. It wouldn’t be so bad if you could just express how bloody aggravating that is but – again – the only audible sound you can produce is an excited “hmmmmmmmrf” like a demented hamster with enough food in its cheeks to last it an entire winter. Again he sits there in anticipation of an answer, blissfully unaware that you’d quite happily bite his head off if you weren’t already trying to ingest a cranium-sized globe of semi-masticated sandwich. The fury subsides enough for you to be able to point out the bag sitting on your desk between you and him which quite clearly states ‘John’s Sandwich Shop, corner of Goodge Street and Berners Street’. Just for clarity, you point out that this isn’t just a random sandwich bag you keep on your desk for decoration. It is in fact the very place that the sandwich you are holding, the one that you are doing your utmost to try and enjoy, actually came from.

This last comment seems to satisfy his curiosity, and he turns back to his screen seemingly content. You pause for a few seconds, trying not to glare too angrily at him. You linger there for a few seconds, just to see if another question is forthcoming. This time: zilch, nada, nothing. He just sits there lifelessly staring into a spreadsheet and dribbling into his keyboard. The coast is clear, so you chance another bite of your sandwich. A small bite though, just in case of another (un)timely interruption. You finally get to enjoy the sandwich of your dreams, albeit one tiny bird-bite at a time. The sweet sound of silence continues for a while, and lulls you into a sense of security. You absent-mindedly dive in for a big bite of your sandwich when…

“Where is that shop? I think I’ll go buy myself one of those…”

You can help it. The rage boils over and you emit a muffled cry of “Frrrk uffff, uh fhhrrkng brrrrstrd!”.

“What was that?”

He takes your stifled screams to mean “hold on right there, let me just consume this mouthful and then I can explain in great detail exactly where the sandwich shop is using these pens as markers and this desk as a rudimentary map”. In actual fact you’re screaming “hold on right there, let me just consume this mouthful and then I can explain in great detail exactly how I’m going to disembowel you using these pens as surgical implements and this desk as a rudimentary operating table”.



He then remembers that you have; a) already given him the directions and b) they’re also on a bag right in front of his stupid flapping jaw. He pats you on the back as he walks off, sending you into a coughing fit as a piece of your part-chomped sandwich flies down the wrong tube.

Thank you oh Jovial Jaw-Flapping Sandwich Saboteur, and may your sandwich give you the worst case of the shits ever seen this century.