During an e-mail convo with a friend today, I was reminded of an amusing exploit undertaken during my employment with the State. Long before I started working there (better known as BM, Before Mymsie), some employee scored a ridiculous-looking beaver candle and brought it in for a white elephant gift exchange. The wax monstrosity soon gained legendary status and was passed down from one paper-pushing generation to the next. Once I learned of its existence, I couldn’t resist the longing in my soul to participate in its debasement, if it’s possible to further bastardize a critter-shaped light source. The Bumpster and I concocted a plan to pilfer the beaver (sounds like a drinking game) and hold it for ransom. He took a picture of me ominously threatening to set the little bugger afire. Already aching from side-splitting laughter, we planned to send the picture and a cryptic note to the beaver’s owner. Unfortunately, my apparently recognizable fingernails gave away my identity in the picture. Stumped, we pondered our options. Although we had access to Photoshop, we worried the project would cut into our nap time and instead opted to somehow cover my hand. Before long, the Bumpster produced a single latex glove. (Don’t ask me why he had a spare one lying around.) I snapped on the glove, stoked the lighter, and the Bumpster captured the moment for posterity:
If you look carefully, you’ll notice I set the glove on fire, clever crook that I am. It smelled really pretty. Luckily it was after hours so the stink didn’t give us away.
Eventually, we were forced to return The Beave to its rightful owner, who felt ashamed and yet had grown strangely attached to the waxen varmint.
I’ll never forget our tomfoolery and am still MYSTIFIED that:
- I left that job with several relatively-unblemished references.
- I was never escorted from the building.
- The governor hasn’t invited me not to return to the fine, stout bastion that is our Government Center.