Key to Heaven and Hell

Going up?

When you have a key to the elevator, there's nowhere in the building you can't get to. Well, I guess there is the occasional locked door. But more often than not, the elevator gives you the means of bypassing them. (I'm doing my evil "I have so much power right now" face, just so you know.)

Don't get me wrong, a sonic screwdriver would be nice, but until technology evolves to that point I'll stick with the elevator key.

This was another one of those "Hey, Mark, I need something," moments. He kindly left the shop door unlocked so I could peruse at my leisure. Actually, despite the large sign that says "please keep locked at all times," I'm not sure the door ever gets locked. I only run things by him as a courtesy.

It wasn't hard to find the elevator key. There's a wall full of very deliberately labeled keys (about which Mark has complained to numerous times. Why can't they just have one master key to rule them all?) In a place this large, the keys need to be labeled.

There it was. "Elevator." Third from the bottom on the rightmost column, near all of the other keys going to major doors--the top left was devoted to things like desk keys, or the stray unlabeled key, which got little or no use, but had to be kept as a matter of practice. I swiped the elevator key and went to my deed.

My deed. I could probably be arrested for this. What would my defense be? "He was a zombie"? At the best, that's going to get me locked up in a mental institution. On the plus side, I could grow a sweet Matt-Smith-in-a-straight-jacket beard, but at the expense of being locked up in, you know, a nut house.

I guess that's the chance that has to be taken in order to finish a job which has already been started. Steve had already turned two people. It was too dangerous to keep him around.

I went to the basement with the help of my handy-dandy elevator key, and then I sent the elevator soaring back up, all the way to the top floor.

As the elevator stopped letting off its low groan, I pried open the doors. Steve was dangling there letting loose an incessant groan of his own. He always was unnecessarily chatty. I guess I can't count on zombification to make people bearable.

Admittedly, I hadn't really thought out how I was going to do this. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to. There was still, in the dark recesses of my mind, the fear that these were feeling beings, my once-human companions, and that my destruction of their bodies would bring immense pain. I've watched loved ones die in agony. Now I watched Steve grasping inefficaciously toward my throat.

Stupid zombie.

I grabbed one of the pipes that was sitting beside the door--the basement was mostly used for storage by facilities--and wedged it between the elevator doors. Grabbing another pipe, I began swinging at Steve like he were some kind of overgrown, man-eating piñata.

In my attempt to bash Steve's brains in, I managed to break his arm, knock loose a handful of teeth, and bloody the walls of the elevator shaft. Of all the sports, I was always most inept at baseball. Basketball, I was passable at. Soccer, I was reasonable at, in certain capacities. With baseball, it took me four seasons just to finally hit a fair ball. With that minor success, I decided early retirement was my most strategic move.

Finally, with a little bit of sweat (mine) and blood (Steve's), I was able to knock him around the head enough to make him grow silent and still.

Okay. I didn't really think out how to deal with the body. Or the blood. (Does spraying it down with ammonia actually prevent a forensics team from getting a good sample?)

X

It sure seems to work out for them well in Boondock Saints

I probably shouldn't Google "how to hide a body."

X

I shouldn't, but I did.

I sprayed down the scene with ammonia I found down the the basement. Hopefully that actually does something if someone comes looking. Maybe they won't. Bob's wife thinks he's cheating on her.

I still need to do something with the body. I can't well leave it rotting down there. If you guys have any ideas, I'm all ears.

Until then...

~M

Press One For: This is Not a Mechanical Problem

Thanks for all the recent Facebook shares. I had to divulge some pretty heavy news yesterday, and it's nice to get some love. Much love, internets. Much love.

Apparently, or so goes the recent news, Steve is getting a little pissy about being stuck in the elevator shaft. Someone heard a groaning noise which they assumed was mechanical. So what do they do? Why, they send up a mechanic, of course.

He came into this place a man. He left this place a monster. (To return shortly, possibly repeatedly, and leave neverafter.)

But that could probably be said about anyone that comes into this place, whether they get zombified or not. This place has a way of disfiguring the soul. At a certain point, even murdering babies sounds like a perfectly acceptable way to pass the time. That should give some indication of how horrible this place is. If you have a choice between living in a cardboard box or working here, choose the box. For God's sake, choose the frakking box.

Wouldn't it be a strange twist of fate if it turned out that this whole zombie thing was the result, not of some virus, but of working here for too long? I guess that doesn't really take into account the "turning into a zombie when you get bit" thing. But it is true that the longer you work here, the more likely you are to turn into a zombie. That's elementary (mathematics), my dear Watson.

Which segues poorly into a conversation I was having about the virus. Do you think there are different mutations of the virus? I mean, relatively speaking, these zombies are pretty docile. They'll still bite your face off, but they'll do it docilely. Do you think there is, or could be, a strain of the virus that makes 28 Days Later zombies? That would be a little frightening. Just kidding. That would be a lot frightening.

X

Is there a docile way to bite someone's face off? I mean, seriously, how did we have oxymorons before zombies? Living dead. Docile face-biting. You can't make this stuff up.

I'd like to say it's not possible, but given what I know about viruses and their abilities to mutate haphazardly, I have to accept that possibility. Really, we all do. This "phenomenon" may be isolated right now, but it's only a matter of time before it gets out into the world proper. Once it's free, there's no telling what the virus will do.

Maybe I should kill Steve.

I know that's kind of random, but do you think I should? You know, the whole "put him out of his misery" and "protect the innocent" arguments.

Maybe I should just burn this place to the ground.

Or maybe not.

The thought alone gets me through the day. Freedom.

X

Because quitting wouldn't be freedom enough? Well, I suppose not. This place injects itself into your very dreams and haunts you like rabid hellspawn. Burning it probably would be the only way to rid yourself of it.

Reminds me of a story I read once back when I was working on the lit magazine. Guy's ex-girlfriend ends up with his dogs, his cabin in the woods--his dream life, basically. She calls him out to protect her during a thunderstorm because she's "too city" to take care of herself out there in the woods. When she takes her friend into town to go to the hospital, the guy has an epiphany, rakes the fire out onto the floor, goes outside, sits in a lawn chair beside his dogs, and watches the cabin burn. How's that for resolution to a relationship, huh?

Meh. If only fire really were that purifying.

I think I'll kill Steve. So, uh, yeah. I suppose I'll have the details of that for you tomorrow.

~M

Torched Wood

Khristoffer's news was scary. Scarier, even, than working in an office full of zombies.

We're five people overstaffed.

At least, that's what he heard through the grapevine. It wasn't supposed to be something he heard, of course, but one thing is always certain: people will yak. Well, that's the only certain thing other than death and taxes.

X

With this whole zombie thing, we can't be too certain that death is still on that table, can we?

Given the work ethic of the zombies, obscene as it is, there's no way they're getting canned. That means five of the unturned are going to lose their jobs.

X

Why can't we all take a hint from the Kapauku, who believe that working two consecutive days is bad luck?

Fuck.

And the dumb thing--dumb, in this case, meaning ironic--is that those who would be most likely to get let go pre-zombification are precisely the kinds of dumbasses that get themselves bit. These idiots, by some miracle of nature, have become the perfect employees.

I'm a little worked up about this whole thing, if you couldn't tell.

Now, I'm overqualified for this position, so that isn't really the worry. I highly doubt that I'm on the chopping block. But there are two remaining issues. 1) Whoever does get the boot actually needs the paycheck, unlike the zombie who will be keeping their job, and 2) every unturned that leaves increases the zombie to human ratio, thus making it that much more dangerous for those that remain.

This sucks.

I'm sorry. I'm not being very articulate. And I should be used to it with this place. People don't stick around long. Of course, that fact doesn't make it any less stressful.

How about something cheery? Do we want something cheery?

How about this past week's Torchwood episode? Big improvement over the first one, right? Still leaning a little American, but this season could turn out alright after all.

Screw it. I can't do the happy thing right now. Sorry guys (and ghouls). I'm going to get through this day, and then go drown myself in some scotch and Doctor Who. But mostly Doctor Who.

X

And maybe a couple of satsumas.

Later.

~M

Why so ominous?

So, that whole Friday Night Magic thing. I got my ass kicked. By a zombie deck. Who the hell rocks zombies anymore? Back in the day they were the bees knees, but isn't it all Eldrazi and Leonin now? I didn't even know that many zombies had been released in the past three years. Yowza. I really, really hope this isn't a sign.

X

According to Gatherer, 68 zombies have been released as far back as the Shadowmoor block. I guess that's how a guy gets his ass kicked by zombies.

Another suprise: we've actually had work today. Real work. Well, I guess that depends on your definition of real work. (We're definitely not producing goods or making the world a better place. YMMV.) Our friendly neighborhood zombies already had half of it done by the time anyone else got into the office though.

X

That's "Your Mileage May Vary," for the initialism-disinclined.

I wonder how Steve is doing, BTW. You know, with the whole elevator thing. It's hard to not think of them as pets once you start locking them up in cages. Or elevator shafts. You almost feel like you should be feeding them. Unfortunately, in this instance, I'm the food. And as priceless as the image would be, I'm not about to start tossing buckets of human viscera into an elevator shaft. Haha. I wonder if anyone would even notice. Or stop to question me. My money--my very small, nearly worthless pile of money--is on "no".

Black bean and hemp burgers with cilantro and thai chiles for lunch. I might have to take back all of the bad things I've ever said about zombies. I don't think I ever ate this well while I was eating meat. I just have one more reason why McDonald's makes me sick to my stomach now. And I wonder if the rumors about human fingers ending up in the meat grinders are true...

I noticed that Mark, the facilities manager, was replacing some carpet in the northwest corner of the room today. Blood stains. Seems Bob decided to have a snack again. On Mary.

Really, people? Blood is pooling up on the carpet and you still can't figure out that there are frakking zombies all up in your business? Being that deliberately stupid is just too much work.

X

You see what I did there? Because this is a business. And it's being overrun by zombies. Lawlz. The puns. I think they probably hurt more than they heal.

X

Best contribution ever made by a Sci-Fi show to the human language. Thanks, Battlestar Galactica. Although, if we were to incorporate some of that Mandarin from Firefly into the English language... tomorrow would be 神聖的睾丸.

Mind you, quite a few of us have figured it out. It's the same group of us that used to debate over how we'd escape if there were ever a zombie apocalypse. (Ironic how now that a zombie apocalypse is a-brewin', all of us are choosing to stay put.) For the most part, though, it seems to be going unnoticed. I'm shaking my head, internet. I really hope you're all smarter than that.

On a side note, I wonder if they decided to go with carpet tiles precisely because they were expecting blood when they designed this place. I know that's not really the reason, but it makes the day go by faster if you pretend this whole institution is just a little more sinister than it already is.

I wonder if Mark knows about the Zs. He probably does. He just doesn't care. I mean, how could he not know when he's cleaning up the mess from the latest zombie attack? (And why exactly do these zudes just randomly get up and start wandering around? Is it actually because they're hungry?)

I wonder about the managers sometimes too. They're almost too oblivious for comfort. About like the last time there were a huge number of layoffs. The signs were everywhere, but they acted like they had no clue.

Assholes.

If they do know what's up, why do they keep carrying on? You'd think that in this instance they'd actually be in a hurry to split.

With regard to the rest of my day, I'm supposed to go get a drink with Khristoffer after work. Haven't seen much of him since he went to his new contract. He says he's got something I'll probably want to hear. I have no idea what he's talking about.

Anyways. This job is all numbers on paper, so I suppose I should go do a little bit of actual work so they don't have a reason to can me.

Adios, mis amigos.

~M

Friday Bloody Friday

Friday Night Magic! I'll be heading over to the local card shop as soon a I get out of this hell hole. It'll be nice to have social interaction that doesn't involve zombies for a change.

This day will never end, though. Fridays are always like that. They're like a tenth circle of hell, taunting you with an ever evasive 6 o'clock salvation. Samsara up in this bitch. A daily death and rebirth. Well, for those of us who aren't all Z'd up.

I'm not a particularly brave person. Not at all. I'm not sticking around as a show of machismo, as some have suggested. I'm sticking around precisely because I'm scared shitless. I have an English degree, I'll have you know. Lucky to not be living in a box right now. After 57 rejections, I burned the manuscript of my novel and decided that my only purpose in life was to eat, shit, and die. And play Magic . I'll be in this dump until I die.

Anyways. Zombie news time. Steve decided to be a major pain in the ass today. For some reason he decided to get up and wander around, and next thing you know he's fallen down the main stairwell and gotten himself broken and stuck on the landing between the main floor and ground level.

Of course, the security guard went to go check it out, and I bet you can guess what happened next. And now no one can get in or out of the building because this zude is hanging out waiting to bite people. (Goddammit, Todd. I've started calling them zudes now.)

I volunteered myself (against my better judgment) and Todd to go quietly remove Steve from the stairwell so that we could keep the zombie thing under wraps as well as possible, considering most people here still haven't figured it out. Not that I really have any reason for others not to know, other than that people act rashly over less.

"I can't believe you're making me do this, man," was Todd's only protest.

"We're going to need rope," I said, ignoring him.

I asked the facilities manager for said rope. He's a really cool guy, but pretty jaded after working in this place for so long. He doesn't really ask questions, and doesn't have much of a care when things go missing. "Casualty of corporate living," he'd say. He just "accidentally" left the shop unlocked and let me to it.

"Ever been in a rodeo?" Todd asked, probably assuming that,  because I grew up in the country, I knew how to rope and ride. I'll have you know that I've been on a pony once, and the only knots I can tie are the ones I make up. (I am a pretty good shot,  though, which could always come in handy.)

"I'm pretty good at claw machines. We'll see how I manage." With that, I half-assed a knot into the rope, and started tossing the loop toward Steve in an effort to get it caught under his arm.

Finally, I did, and Todd helped me wrangle Steve up the stairs.

"Now what?" Todd asked.

"Run down and hit the elevator button on the first floor." I instructed.

Steve drooled impatiently on the floor while we waited.

"Now help me pry open these doors," I said as Todd reemerged.

When we got the doors open, I tied the rope to the cable inside the elevator shaft. A press the button later and Steve was flying up into the elevator shaft.

"Weren't you just complaining the other day about how zombies might have feelings?" Todd asked.

Yeah, so I launched a zombie into an elevator shaft. He's stuck there, for now, but I don't see that it will hurt him any. He certainly can't get bored, considering what he was going to be doing instead. And now he can't bite anyone.

Really, at this point I'm just worried about having a zombie free weekend. And kicking some ass at Magic tonight.

So, what are you guys doing for the weekend?

Peace, out.

~M

She's Got A Gold Tooth, Ya Know She's Hardcore

The cute Subway girl gave me a hard time for getting a sandwich without meat today. If only she knew why.

I can't tell her, of course, that my workplace is being overrun by zombies. It would be easier if these blasted Zs would leave the office, but once they completely turn, they can't seem to pull themselves away from their computers and the precious spreadsheets they plink away at all day. If they left, if they interacted with the outside world, people would know that something is going on. In fact, all of us could turn and no one would even know. Family and friends might get concerned, and an investigation might be launched, but as soon as investigators showed up they, themselves, would be turned. Eventually they too would settle in at a computer and start mindlessly plinking away.

Joey stayed late last night. I turned the lights out as I left and he, Bob, and Steve just sat there at their computers. The sickness is clearly already starting to take hold in him. A few more days and he'll never leave the office again.
It was Todd who was feeling particularly courageous today. Or particularly stupid, as the case may be.

"Psst. Hey. I'm going to go swipe Bob's phone. See if anyone's looking for him," he'd said.

Bob groaned as Todd approached, agitated by the sudden movements.

"Steady there, Bob. Take it easy," said Todd, as he reached into Bob's jacket pocket, the jacket hanging on the back of Bob's chair.

"Shit. Let go." Bob's fingers were wrapped tightly around Todd's wrist, saliva dripping from his lips as he went in for a bite.

Todd grabbed Bob's Nalgene and started bashing Bob in the face with it. Bob snarled, but let go, and when Todd put a few feet between them and Bob returned to his spreadsheet, mindless as ever.

"Jesus Christ, that fucker has grip on him," said Todd as he returned to his desk.

"What the hell happened over there?" I asked.

"That zude tried to bite me."

"No shit. I could see that. But he let go."

"Well, to be fair, I was smacking him in the face with a water bottle."

"Yeah, but he let go. That means they can feel."

"Not necessarily," said Todd. "I mean, not like we do. It would be in the virus's best interest to keep its host as functioning as possible. If it knows that its host is being damaged, it would do well to give up its chase."

"I suppose so."

His argument sounded too Cartesian to me. Just because it's easier to think of them as unfeeling, we say that they are like machines and any reaction they produce is by design. Personally, I think Descartes was a jackass. But if I reject that my Z'd up coworkers are mindless automatons, then I may unintentionally force a moral obligation upon myself.

"Yo, check this out."

"Bob, this is Samantha. I keep calling and you don't pick up. Don't think I don't know what's going on here. You're cheating on me. I know it. And I've had enough. We're through. And you can just go to hell. Fuck you."


"Just like women, right?" said Todd. "You disappear for a few days, and they won't even entertain the theory that you've become a zombie. They just automatically assume you're cheating.

Poor Samantha. And poor us. If we do all get Z'd up, they may not come looking for us after all.

A Grumbling in My Tummy

It was bound to happen eventually. Eventually just happened to be today.

Just as I'm about to take a bite out of my big, juicy, Arby's roast beef sandwich, Joey comes running into the office all excited-like. This naturally upset Bob, who, at this point in the story, proceeded to bite a chunk out of Joey's neck. (Note to self: siphon some Magic money into a thesaurus fund. I'm getting really sick of this whole "naturally" thing.)

Turns out Joey had been hired at some media firm that actually paid a decent wage, unlike this place. Sounds like they got real desks there too. So much for all of that now.

It changes you when you see one grown man take a bite out of another grown man. Needless to say, I'm going to be eating a lot of tempeh from here on out. Or maybe fish. I'm not a big fan of fish, but at this point I'm basically down to anything that doesn't remind me of human flesh. Gross.

Todd started keeping a database of confirmed infected. I think it's just out of boredom, as I don't see how keeping a computer full of names is going to make one any less bite-able. We'll see though. I've got my money on Todd being one of the ones that makes it through to The Awakening. No, that isn't a euphemism for suicide by drowning. It's how we've started referring to the day that we'll be able to come out into the open about the situation we're in.

I mean, realistically, any of us could just walk out of here if at any point we felt it was too dangerous. The job market is shit though, and rent doesn't pay itself. (Honestly, Mike Rowe can suck it. This job sucks.)

Bob missed the jugular when he bit Joey, so we won't be able to test our reanimation theories. Todd believes that the disease will reanimate corpses, just like in all of his favorite zombie movies. I think that's wishful thinking. Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge Romero fan, but I just don't see it happening. I think the changes are largely behavioral, and that if a person suffered a fatal injury during a zombie attack, they would just die. That would explain why these particular zombies, unlike the ones in the movies, aren't overly aggressive. The virus needs to keep its potential hosts alive. That's my theory anyway.

I gave my roast beef sandwich to Joey. Seemed like the poor bastard could use it. As for myself, I went across the street to Cafe Yumm and got a Yumm wrap with tempeh, and even that turned out to be almost too meat-like to stomach.

I'm really going to need to see a shrink when all is said and done.

Not a Typical Case of the Mondays

I've decided to start keeping a blog since, well, I don't have much better to spend my time on. TPS reports? None of those, but you get the basic idea. It's all busy work. Working at pretending to work.

X

We've all seen Office Space, right?

Bonus! Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta...

And if you've got one of those viruses, I'm all ears.

And then there's the rather precarious situation I've found myself in. Office jobs aren't usually that dangerous--the occasional communicable disease spreading like proverbial wildfire, sure--but things aren't quite that peachy here. Since the probability of my dying--or my undying, as the case may be-- is rather high, I figure I should probably chronicle what time I have left.

Bob was the first to get sick. He kinda had to be, right? Bob. Such a plain name. A dispensable name. The kind of character that dies first in every horror, thriller, action, or black comedy film. And speaking of black--I never understood why the black guy always dies first in movies. If anything, blacks throughout history have shown a penchant for survival and ingenuity. But given that real life more often resembles movies these days than anything in our collective past, if Bob had been black, Bob definitely would have gotten the sickness doubleplusfast.

X

Tupac got shot. And MLK Jr. didn't exactly die of old age either. I was thinking more along the lines of "climbing out of the bowels of slavery", or something equally dramatic. That clearly isn't working out for me. So, sue me.

X

Honestly, I'm not a huge fan of 1984. Not the ending, anyways. But Newspeak? Now that's the bee's knees.

To be honest, though, nobody really noticed at first. Not to put too light of a tone on the whole thing, but we really are basically zombies to start with.

"What the fuck, Bob?" Those are the words that came screeching out of Little Steve's mouth to awaken us from our stupor. Something was definitely wrong when he stood up with a bloody gash in his arm in the shape of Bob's teeth. In reply, Bob shrugged and went back to staring at his Twitter stream.

Now, Bob still went home at first, but he stayed at the office later and later as time progressed. He started showing up earlier as well. He was obsessed with his work--and that's how you can tell a real zombie from one of your typical office schmuck types: you aren't going to find one of the uninfected begging to stay at work, unless they really, really, pissed off their wife and/or girlfriend.

Is it sexist that I didn't mention women pissing off their boyfriends? Probably, but not any less than the institution which legitimizes those kinds of statements. Besides, in the immortal words of Dr. Sheldon Cooper, "bitches be crazy."

But where was I?

Right.

While unfazed by the oozing gash in Steve's arm--which required sixteen stitches, BTW--our TM, Joe, started getting worried when he saw how much unapproved overtime Bob was accruing. (Naturally, the managers are more concerned about how the company looks on paper than about what is actually getting done.) Bob mostly just groaned as Joe have him a stern talking to, but Joe finally offered a rather shady deal, whereby Bob could volunteer as much of his time as he wanted if he "really needed to be away from home," but he could only clock 40 hours a week. There was more groaning on Bob's part, but Joe only seemed to take that as agreement. I imagine he got that a lot around here.

Steve's progression followed suit, naturally--and do I ever need to expand my vocabulary, since I keep describing things as natural which no sane person would describe thusly. I won't bother you with the largely identical details between Bob's case and Steve's.

Now, it's not like you see in the movies. Bob, Steve, and the others who have managed to get too close to Bob and Steve, aren't chasing us around the office trying to consume our brains. It's more like the excitative stage of rabies mixed with opiate withdrawal. They like doing mindless things--an excess of external stimuli just seems to irritate them--so really, they don't stick out too much in an office environment. And yes, if people get too close or make too much noise, they bite.

I'm not surprised that we were so slow to figure it out, when you really think about it. The mind tends toward atrophy when you sit all day staring at gray walls, in a gray cube, with the soft glow of a monitor as your only companion. I mean, some of us are just fucking idiots (names withheld to protect the identities of the stupid), but even with us educated types, it's only a matter of time before the environment takes its toll.

You're probably wondering, dearest reader--ooh! I sound so nineteenth century--you're probably wondering why we didn't contact the CDC or some other government agency when we finally started piecing it together. It's simple, really. Would you tell a government agency, or anyone for that matter, that "vampires live next door" if that particular phrasing wasn't immediately preceded by "a group of crazy cultists who believe they are"? No. You wouldn't. The same goes for werewolves, ghosts, aliens, and, most definitely, zombies. As much fun as I've always thought it would be to play at Harry Houdini, I don't exactly want to end up in a straight jacket against my will.

I'll be the first to admit that this current incarnation of society has made us dumbly obedient--but hey, it comes with quad core processors and Super AMOLED screens.

So, you see my predicament. I have to keep coming to work to earn a paycheck with which to feed my Magic: the Gathering addiction. (Plus, they provide me with free internet, and the firewall is a joke to SSH through.) But, by the same token, every day I come here could be the last one I have to enjoy my geeky pursuits. Therein lies the rub.

If I keep quiet though, keep my head down, and just pretend to do work, it should work out in my favor. In a way, it's not much different from my pre-Zombie j-o-b. Besides, the Zs really only get irritable and try to bite you if you invade their personal space, and I can't honestly say that I blame them. I know I've felt that way before. Doc says it's the blood sugar. Gotta watch my blood sugar.

Insert dramatic pause here.

You're the only one's I can talk to, my internet friends. Under the veil of internet anonymity I can share my story without drawing too much of the wrong kind of attention to myself. Someday, when the truth becomes known, I'll be able to come out of hiding and share my story publicly.

But until then, please don't try to involve any government agencies, for your own good. They'll just think you're crazy. Also, don't try to track me down so you can be brave and come rescue me. I've obfuscated my IP address to ensure that you can't pinpoint my location. I just need you to listen. That's your sole role in all of this.

Shit.

It's only 9:18.

I still have eight and a half more hours of this drudgery. I was really hoping this whole blogging thing would kill more of my day. Le sigh. I guess it's back to doing Google searches for cheese.

~M