Definitive Proof of Cubicle Peekery!

I was recently asked to compile productivity charts for a group of typists down the hall—Boss Hawg handed me a bunch of numbers and told me to make pies out of them. And this was supposed to be confidential, although that's not what she said—"don’t leave these out on your desk, don't mention these to the typists—" Etc.

A few minutes ago one of my regular cubicle peekers walked past, head craned as usual, and then stopped. "Merit Typists Productivity Reports?" She stepped fully in and stared at me. "That's us! What's this about?"

You see how they spy on me!

. . .

Here is a highlight of the reunion, for those of you who didn't go:

Josh Wuebker, drunk, coming up to Rominger, clapping him on the shoulder. "Justin Gillaspie! If it isn't Justin Gillaspie!"

Rominger: "What?"

"Justin Gillaspie!"

"What?"

"Justin Gillaspie!…?"

Me, whispering: "Rominger."

Rominger was none too happy.

. . .

And remember: for the Follies we're switching roles on the different nights, so you have to memorize the WHOOOLE SCRIPTTTT.

. . .

Good job castrating me last night, suckers. What happened? And what was the motivation?