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Weird Short Stories by a Weird Canadian, Why I Came to Work Six Hours Late: Another Excuse from Mr. Rasch

Why I Came to Work Six Hours Late: Another Excuse from Mr. Rasch

“Thank you for the puppy you got me so that I wouldn't fire you for recklessly abandoning your duties as an employee of this company last time,” Mr. Rasch's boss said to Mr. Rasch. “However, that puppy will not save you from the repercussions of being six hours late today. So unless you have another puppy, I hope you have a good – and more importantly, plausible – excuse this time.”

Why I Came to Work Six Hours Late: Another Excuse from Mr. Rasch

Ah, sir, good sir, kind sir! I'm sorry that I arrived six hours late, moreover without a puppy. I understand how disappointed you must be; I myself want a puppy. In fact, I was originally skipping work to buy a puppy. However, I soon found myself in the hospital. It's a long story, you see, but suffice it to say that it involved a cookie, 28 goats and a deceptively strong schoolteacher that I accidentally kidnapped while I was acquiring 28 goats. Luckily, I suffered minimal damage from the incident, and once the doctors had removed all 307 bullets, I was told that I should go. Well, they didn't put it like that; they said it like, “SECURITY!” but I know when to take a hint. So, following the doctor's request, I exited the building and ventured into the grand world outside, my head comfortably adorned with a top hat I'd found in the bathroom I'd hidden out in while I was waiting for the security guards to complete their pursuit of some deranged psycho running around the hospital. A deranged psycho, can you imagine, sir? Naturally, I didn't want to disrupt their brave work. The outside world was far brighter than I had grown accustomed to after spending several hours unconscious under the knife and it hurt my eyes, but my responsibilities as an employee at this company are important to me, so I braved the sunlight and began my trip to the office. I was about 15 steps into this journey when I happened across an independent baker selling things at a small booth on the street. I, as a cookie connoisseur, was justifiably offended by the fact that the cookies he was selling were actually potatoes. “Would you like a cookie?” he asked me, clearly unable to distinguish between unadulterated fury and keen enthusiasm. “They're only $10 apiece.” “I am a cookie connoisseur,” I relayed to him in a much angrier tone than text may be able to convey. All colour drained from the face of this ersatz baker and he whispered, “No, no, it can't be...” “Those are potatoes,” I confirmed. “I knew this day would come!” he wailed, bursting into tears. “I have cats to feed!” “You're a monster,” I informed him. Thoroughly disgusted, I proceeded to throw the contents of my wallet at this pathetic phony. “How many potatoes will this buy?” I snarled at him. He wiped his tears and I waited patiently as he counted the money. “12,” he finally told me, and handed me 12 potatoes. “This is for every cookie connoisseur you've ever offended and for every oblivious sap who ever ended up with a potato when he wanted a cookie!” I screamed at this criminal as I pelted him with potatoes. He suffered many potato-related injuries, but luckily there was a hospital approximately 15 steps away, so he was probably okay. I don't know for sure though, since I hurried right home to cry for a bit, where I was so unfathomably offended. After about one and a half hours of incessant sobbing, I managed to shrug off the insult and made my way to work. It remains a painful memory fresh in my mind, however. So... you see, sir, that's the reason why I'm so late. But guess what! I saved one of the potatoes! You can only have it if you don't fire me.


Why I Came to Work Six Hours Late: Another Excuse from Mr. Rasch

“Thank you for the puppy you got me so that I wouldn't fire you for recklessly abandoning your duties as an employee of this company last time,” Mr. Rasch's boss said to Mr. Rasch. “However, that puppy will not save you from the repercussions of being six hours late today. So unless you have another puppy, I hope you have a good – and more importantly, plausible – excuse this time.”

Why I Came to Work Six Hours Late: Another Excuse from Mr. Rasch

Ah, sir, good sir, kind sir! I'm sorry that I arrived six hours late, moreover without a puppy. I understand how disappointed you must be; I myself want a puppy. In fact, I was originally skipping work to buy a puppy. However, I soon found myself in the hospital. It's a long story, you see, but suffice it to say that it involved a cookie, 28 goats and a deceptively strong schoolteacher that I accidentally kidnapped while I was acquiring 28 goats. Luckily, I suffered minimal damage from the incident, and once the doctors had removed all 307 bullets, I was told that I should go. Well, they didn't put it like that; they said it like, “SECURITY!” but I know when to take a hint. So, following the doctor's request, I exited the building and ventured into the grand world outside, my head comfortably adorned with a top hat I'd found in the bathroom I'd hidden out in while I was waiting for the security guards to complete their pursuit of some deranged psycho running around the hospital. A deranged psycho, can you imagine, sir? Naturally, I didn't want to disrupt their brave work. The outside world was far brighter than I had grown accustomed to after spending several hours unconscious under the knife and it hurt my eyes, but my responsibilities as an employee at this company are important to me, so I braved the sunlight and began my trip to the office. I was about 15 steps into this journey when I happened across an independent baker selling things at a small booth on the street. I, as a cookie connoisseur, was justifiably offended by the fact that the cookies he was selling were actually potatoes. “Would you like a cookie?” he asked me, clearly unable to distinguish between unadulterated fury and keen enthusiasm. “They're only $10 apiece.”  “I am a cookie connoisseur,” I relayed to him in a much angrier tone than text may be able to convey. All colour drained from the face of this ersatz baker and he whispered, “No, no, it can't be...” “Those are potatoes,” I confirmed. “I knew this day would come!” he wailed, bursting into tears. “I have cats to feed!” “You're a monster,” I informed him. Thoroughly disgusted, I proceeded to throw the contents of my wallet at this pathetic phony. “How many potatoes will this buy?” I snarled at him. He wiped his tears and I waited patiently as he counted the money. “12,” he finally told me, and handed me 12 potatoes. “This is for every cookie connoisseur you've ever offended and for every oblivious sap who ever ended up with a potato when he wanted a cookie!” I screamed at this criminal as I pelted him with potatoes. He suffered many potato-related injuries, but luckily there was a hospital approximately 15 steps away, so he was probably okay. I don't know for sure though, since I hurried right home to cry for a bit, where I was so unfathomably offended. After about one and a half hours of incessant sobbing, I managed to shrug off the insult and made my way to work. It remains a painful memory fresh in my mind, however. So... you see, sir, that's the reason why I'm so late. But guess what! I saved one of the potatoes! You can only have it if you don't fire me.