Punching the Clock: Checking out

I was lost on a sea of gravy, floating in a raft made of waffle fries when the desk bell rang. Ding, ding. Get up, Mike, youíre not allowed to sleep here, a voice said. I woke up confused and drooling. Where am I? Why is Todd Campbell standing over me, looking un-impressed? Oh yeah. We havenít even started the overnight shift at the Super 8 Motel and Iím already sleeping. Dreaming vividly, in fact. It was actually a recurring nightmare. Eventually I eat the raft, get rescued by Fudgie the ice cream cake whale, abandoned by Fudgie (I nibbled a little at his cookie crust), and wash up on a hostile mashed potato island covered with dinner roll boulders and cascading butter water falls. It always ends just as the islandís evil turkey queen is about to use me as a poultry thermometer.




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