Golden Moments, Vol. I

Faithful readers of Stag Party may have detected the subtle thread of self-deprecation and personal humiliation that runs through our posts. The steady stream of embarrassing situations and humbling revelations that my compatriot and are often faced with is grist for our mill: we write with the hope that your laughter will absolve us somehow. However, friends, we here at Stag Party also have our moments of victory, too. Golden moments, you might say. And I would like to share one with you right now.

I quit my job. It felt fucking great. If you have ever quit a job you hated, then you know what I'm talking about. Let's put aside the mundane details that led to this decision for a sec, though. I'd like to examine the one facet of quitting that I find most interesting, the process of Fantasizing About Quitting. Thus, I present you with two scenarios.

How I Imagined Quitting
The minute I decide I can't take it anymore, I spring from my desk, get the Rambo bandanna I have saved for this very purpose out of my filing cabinet, grab my giant and gleaming ghettoblaster from under my desk and march down to my boss' office. She is in a meeting, but I do not care. I bust in (without knocking!), set the speaks right on top of a huge stack of reports and hit play.
After about thirty seconds of Paul Westerberg wailing "Unsatisfied," I fast forward the mix tape and "Cop Killer" kicks in. I survey the stunned faces in front of me, locking eyes with each and every one of my superiors.
"No," the director silently mouths.
"Uh huh," I silently mouth back, simultaneously cocking an eyebrow and doing a crotch thrust, "I quit."
"What?" the office manager asks. Apparently, I am still silent-mouthing.
"I QUIT!" I scream over Ice T. The applause of my fellow co-workers rises over the din; they have gathered outside of my boss' door, and IT Dude is slowly waving a lit Bic over his head. The ruckus dies down a little, and out of nowhere, Hot UPS Man appears with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and two glasses.
"Need help clearing out your office?" he asks.
"Honey, I don't even have a cubicle," I reply. We laugh together knowingly like old lovers, and ride off into the sunset in his delivery truck.

How It Really Went
I send an email to my boss letting her know I'd like to talk, and then go gorge myself on leftover doughnuts in the break room. When she finally gets back to me, I make my way downstairs with my resignation letter in hand.
"Don't give that to me," she says when she sees the paper in my hand. Apparently, my boss already has an inkling about what's afoot.
"Okay," I say, laughing nervously.
"Do not give me that piece of paper."
"Okay," I say again, "Ha ha. But, um, here," I hand her the letter. "I just want to say how much I've appreciated the opportunities I've been given here," I say, pointing like a drunken monkey at a paragraph in my letter that says exactly the same thing.
"Come on," my boss replies, rolling her eyes.
"Really!" I say. I look at my resignation letter sitting there on the desk. It looks a little sad, cheap. This might be due to the fact that I printed it not twenty minutes before on the company report stock.
"You sure you won't stay?"
I nod. There's a bit of a pause.
"Man, we're getting you so drunk at your going away party."
I nod again. This is the second best idea I've heard all day.