It was a rather ordinary day at work. Another day banging away at the keyboard to hack away fruitlessly at a constantly growing mountain of data to enter.

I heard a buzzing. Faint at first, it became louder and closer until it was like a bee in my ear. This made sense because there was a bee in my ear.

“Goddammit Frank. What do you want now?” I asked followed by an exasperated sigh through my nose.

“I need your help Tyler! I’m desperate!” This question was topped off by the visual of Frank buzzing around erratically a foot in front of my face while producing rainbow sparkles and all sorts of similar garbage.

“Alright, what can I help you with this time?”

“I really really really really need your help this time! I need your help so bad I don’t know what . . . “

“I already said I’d help, please stop.”

” . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do I’m freaking out whatever will I do I can’t deal with this please . . . “

“STOP!” I demanded. I was weary of this before it even began, words couldn’t describe how annoyed I was now. “What do you need?”

Frank took a deep breath. 

“I’m going to Olive Garden tonight and I’m not sure how much I should tip?”

Ho.

Ly.

Shit.

This was a complete waste of time. Like always. I buried my forehead in one hand and sighed again.

“I dunno. General rule of thumb is fifteen percent I guess. Adjust as needed.”

With an exuberant thanks Frank poofed away in a puff of smoke.

And that’s why this report was late. I absolutely swear that’s the case. Please don’t fire me.

I am so good at Splatoon 2. Someday I’ll even play the game proper!