Yes, sir. That's a burlap sack of corn next to my desk.
The boss, demonstratively gleeful.
My office often produces blaring false fire alarms. Sometimes it produces actual fire alarms. Once in a while, it produces clouds of poisonous ammonia gas, and sometimes they clean the grease traps. I really can't begin to describe how ghastly a large grease trap smells if you've never had the pleasure.
So why do I stick around? Occasionally my office also produces something joyous.
Sometimes, there's sweet corn so fresh, it's less than 120 minutes away from the field where it was picked. Sweet corn so juicy, so prime, you don't even have to heat it. The sugars haven't yet turned to starch.
Shuck an ear, lean over the cubicle trash bin, close your eyes, take a bite and pretend you can't hear the fire alarms sounding. Again.