Exercise in Futility

You syphilitic ass-hats. The deep recess of the fridge at work is clearly not as empty as the vacuous cavern that is your skull, since today I reach in and find the most nefarious cluster of ex-pickles ever known to mankind. If you spent ten minutes rubbing your brain cells together for some other purpose than attempting to wipe your face of a persistently vacant expression, you would have remembered the apparently taxing responsibility you have to future shifts by forcefully removing your head from whatever orifice you have it shoved into and emptying the godforsaken jar of pickles. For the love of my sanity, scrap the mold from your ill-used central cortex and show mercy by liberating the soused vegetables and thereby sparing me from the horrifying realization that I am petty enough to tear you a new asshole over a rotten jar of fetid veggies.