Don't Give Notice--Just Flee

Friday was a sad day at my office, as is every Friday, because Friday means that we all have to grudgingly shut down our barely-literate computers, drag ourselves in the direction of the sketchy elevators that have recently taken to bouncing down the shafts like they're dry-humping the cables, and prepare to spend 48 excruciating hours without the majesty of the law to shed its glow upon us.

Shameless plug for continued gainful employment, take 1.

Speaking of things that are actually true, Friday was less than delightful because it was the last day for one of my favorite attorneys real people at the firm. Since he broke up with us to become a government employee, and I'm sure the government will continue to keep us safe by endlessly Googling him, I'm renaming him Michael Scott. Michael Scott is not only a Steve Carrell creation of epic blunder, but interestingly, is also the first and middle name of a guy I used to date. Adding to the fun? Scott is my middle name too, which I felt the need to share on our second date. FYI, guys aren't thrilled you if you say, "omigosh, that's my middle name too!" It just doesn't have the same bonding potential as, "omigosh, I love Metallica and stale candy corn,* too!"

And now, back to our regularly scheduled mayhem. My coworkers and I are, to put it lightly, raucous like two teenage baboons fighting over the baboonette with the most shapely blue ass, and so we knew that we had to do something stupendous to send Michael Scott off to the feds. Classy catered lunch? Nope. Champagne toast with heartfelt speeches? Nah. Hide in his office, catch him off guard, and ambush him into dressing like a preppy Hawaiian woman? CHECK PLEASE!

Correction: We caught him off guard with six cans of Silly String, and then forced him to dress like a preppy Hawaiian woman with a hint of Groucho Marx. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Exhibit WTF:



To be fair, the preppy end of his enviable ensemble was his own doing, because fortunately, he had come to work clothed that day. (But if he hadn't--that's called going out with a dang, yo.) But bless his Hawaiian heart, he kept his party frock on for the rest of the day! Including the balloons, which he eventually tied to various part of his person so as not to lose them.

As I watched him shuffling his hula hips down the hall and asking paralegals if his boobs were on straight, it occurred to me: If I ever leave this firm, there is no way I'm giving any more than six seconds' notice before I stealthily ease out with a tote bag full of post-its and the quasi-functional lamp from my office shoved under my shirt. I'll be there, deeply engaged in the noble quest of helping people form the melting pot of the USorA, and then shazam! I'll be gone! Just like Molly Ringwald's career and parachute pants.

They'll probably find me, but I'd at least have a head start on the Silly String.

*Because it is delicious, and because it is a sound economic investment, since you will be profiting from candy corn futures trading in your teeth for at least two weeks.