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Sauce: That’s MY lunch.

Yesterday, a coworker ate someone else’s sandwich.  Actually, she ate part of it before noticing the mistake, and then...well...let’s just say, she ate the rest of it because, what can you do at that point?  I never found out whose tummy the sandwich was originally supposed  to inhabit, or what their reaction was, but the whole incident did trigger a host of territorial instincts I never knew I possessed.  
For example, I now bring my lunch to work in a Tupperware with my name on it, kept inside a cooler with my name and telephone number on it, kept inside a padlocked paper bag with an ominous warning printed on the side in blood, which I keep inside my car until the moment I am ready to consume food, and my car is kept locked, and I keep the key on my person at all times.  Also, I have installed a motion sensor on each of my car’s mirrors, which signal me if anyone approaches within fifty feet.  If they come nearer than that, an automatic switch is activated and they’re gunned down by a tiny grenade hidden cleverly in my fuel tank door thing.  Lastly, I put only a decoy lunch made of ingeniously realistic styrofoam and clay into my Tupperware.  I keep the real one ten miles away in my own fridge where it will be safe, and eat it when I get home, while wearing a pair of sunglasses and a furtive look. 



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