Knish's Birthday

Low and behold, he hath not been sprung from eternal flame of Dante's Hell, as I long suspected.
(Shit. And I had money on which "circle" he was from, too.)

Apparently, Mr. Knish was born to human parents and celebrates a date of birth. Quelle surprise.

Of course, this now brings up the obligatory, burning question: Should I bother to actually show up to the fucking thing? Does my ever-prescent desire for buttercream frosting outweigh my hatred for this most unholy figure? Will I be able to enjoy a small slice of Hansen's (whilst eye-balling up another one to steal) while my colleagues and assorted office personal glad-handle The Knish in an effort to not seem like a bunch of sugar-addicted hanger's-on looking for a 4:00pm-fix?

I guess no. Because I'm still sitting here and I'm quite sure the cake is quickly disappearing downstairs. I'm somewhat surprised at my own self-control. Staging my own solo protest against an Agent whom I have no power to wage any kind of embittered retribution upon. Seeing as how I'm merely a Trained Phone Monkey (#61 of 90), it's tough to think that this little act of defiance means much more than me going without cake. I could have always gone down, snagged a piece and done the "slip by" without having to have shook his hand or even pretended like I had given a shit. Maybe it would have even meant more if I had just come, taken the cake and then walked defiantly out.

Fuck. No more cake.