To get to the washrooms on my office's floor, one must walk down a long hallway that we share with the other businesses on our floor. As such, you're bound to run into somebody you don't know and don't necessarily want to talk to, but of course, end up saying hello to/making small talk with.
As you can probably guess, I hate that, because said conversations revolve around two things: 1) How 'bout this crappy weather, eh?! and 2) This is such a looong hallway. (Seriously, the hallway length comes up more than you'd think.)
Today, as I reached the end of the hallway and turned the corner to where the bathroom door is, I noticed four pens lying on the ground. Four pens, that's it. Of course, some bozo I've never met has to – I mean, just has to – come around the opposite corner at the exact same time, also noticing said pens.
I saw no reason to comment on the pens. They fell out of somebody's pocket. They're just pens. Big deal. Not so, however, for my new hallway friend.
"Whoa, whoa whoa what happened here?!" he said in that over-exaggerated tone people use when they want to make a faux-big deal about something in an attempt to be funny.
Now, I could understand this guy's remark if say, instead of four pens, the items on the floor had been a condom, sharktooth, vial of blood and a pen. But no, it was just four pens. That's it. The only way a stack of pens is remotely interesting is if it's an obscene number of pens; if 20,000 Bics lined the hall, I may have cared. But it was just four. Four pens. No shark's teeth.
I refused to take this fellow's bait.
"Somebody dropped four pens, that's what happened," I deadpanned, before walking into the washroom to pee.
Mystery solved, douchebag.
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