And the Job Gets Odder

Ironically enough, only a few days ago I was bragging about the randomness of my work, and gleefully posting my fourth-grade-esque microwave poem.

Today, I’m back to tell you that I hadn’t seen anything yet.

Because today when I walked into the office, the first thing my boss told me was that I would be “going down to the post office to get the sheep’s brains.”

Blank stare, deciding whether or not to laugh.  But honestly, who comes up with a joke that random?  Or did we have a sheep neurology inside joke I had forgottten about?  Doubtful. Then whaa…?

Both office ladies were in front of me now, talking about sheep’s brains, and how they’re used in psychology lab experiments.

Apparently, they were serious.

The woman at the post office laughed when I told her what I had come for.  “Lucky you,” she said, sliding a forbodingly large box across the counter.

It smelled faintly of formeldahyde, and something sloshed inside when I lifted it.  I imagined purple-grey brains slapping against their jars.  I imagined the box sliding through my strained fingers, imagined watching the river of preservatives rush to poison the grass, while the brains shriveled in the afternoon sun.

I clutched the box tightly, willing my biceps to hold out until I got to the lab.

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