Culinary is spelled with a C

Monday mornings are never my forte. I know it'll be another 6 days before some kind man takes pity on me and buggers me senseless in some crusty backroom. All I can look forward to is the sight of those awful office girls, their fat dripping through their ridiculous outfits. And, of course, of my beloved assistant B.

To everyone else, B. is a wonderful colleague: trustworthy, intelligent, sweet, patient, efficient, enthusiastic and what not. All you'd ever want from your assistant. To me, he's the epitomy of Englishness: boring, emasculated, unimaginative, predictable, obedient, did I mention boring? I feel I am stuck in a sexless marriage with a boring woman that I cannot evade, mainly because no one else would (metaphorically) iron my shirts every day of the week, Sunday included.

So, in response to this unbearable situation, or simply to spice up my days, I like to remind B. who the boss is (that's me, just in case you were wondering...).

B.: Yum...! (he murmurs, opening a lunch box)
Me: What's THAT?!?! (recoiling in horror)
B.: That... what?
Me: THAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!!!!!! (pointing in disgust at the contents of the aforementioned lunch box)
B.: Do you mean the baked beans?
Me: NO! I MEAN THAT HORRID RED VOMIT IN YOUR LUNCH BOX!!!!!!!
B.: It's not vomit! These are baked beans. They're good for you!
Me: Good my ASS! Listen to me, boy. I come from a CULTURE with THOUSANDS OF YEARS of culinary history. You come from one that barely knows the difference between parsley and chicken. Don't think for a moment that YOU can tell ME what is GOOD!!!!!
B.: But...
Me: SHUT UP! The point is that what you are about to eat is SHIT!!! Would you feed SHIT to your brain, eh? Would you?
B.: ...
Me: I'll tell you! NO! You wouldn't! So why would you feed shit to your body instead, eh? Eh?

I am particularly proud of the last argument, which really made me feel quite smug. I usually use it with Italians, but the other way round, telling them to stop feeding shit to their brains, the way they would never feed shit to their bodies. Anyway, in the end B. was adamant he'd eat his beans, so I made him leave the room and return only when they'd no longer offend my eyesight.

Lesson for you plebs: If you want the message to reach its audience, make sure it is culturally sensitive!