In retrospect, I think he over-reacted. He knew I liked a laugh, and he knew that, as dismal as the job was, I truly appreciated it. I concede that perhaps the two squashes down the shirt where a bit much, but I tend to get a little stupid around sad women, and Marge had just lost her dog to an overly aggressive sedan. Boy she loved that dog. What was I supposed to do? Morning shift in that cafeteria was shitty enough without a heartbroken head-chef. Being the go getter that I am, I took it upon myself to boost moral. The choice was obvious, I swooped into my classic imitation of the boss’ wife, it always landed strong. I wobbled around the kitchen, squashes in my shirt jingling about waving a ladle frantically, screaming “when are ya gonna put ambrosia salad on the menu Terry?”. Terry took exception. He’d been there all along. ‘Oops, sorry Terry.’ And, even though I told him that, no, there still were many, he swore that it was indeed the last straw and told me to leave. I left with the ladle. At least Marge laughed.