Legal Reason to Murder -or- That’s MY Sandwich, ASSHOLE!

Did know that under the Code of Hammurabi, a thief has his or her hand cut off? Or killed, depending on the translation. There are times I wished we could adopt that principle in our modern world. 

 Now, let me be clear, I’m not an asshole, well, not a complete one. As an only child, I do not feel compelled to share. When I do share what I have with others, I do it out of a sense of community, and kindness. Not out of some hippy commune sense of sharing. When people give, I give. It builds and strengthens relationships. 

 But few things drive me into a murderous rage than those who take what is not theirs. And I’m not talking about normal theft. We have laws which punish thieves. I’m talking about the real assholes in this world who deserve to have their hands chopped off...

...the fucking pricks who steals from the office refrigerator. 

(I imagine the sound of screeching tires, as a bunch of readers just just slammed on the metaphorical breaks on their way to convict and or lynch me for the beginning of this post. Right up until the moment I mentioned the asshole who steals whatever they want from the office fridge. How about it angry mob? You have those flaming torches and pitchforks, wanna head over to that asshole’s house?)

 So I’m a coffee drinker. And to set the record straight, I like cream and little sugar in my coffee. If you want to be one of those tough-nuts “coffee is supposed to be black!” people, please save it. Just go break out your “No Fear” t-shirt’s from the 90’s, go watch MMA and pat yourselves on the back about how much better you are for liking bitter coffee, you super-duper toughy-tough guy or gal. (In case you’re not getting getting it, I’m subtly making fun of you. Bragging about how you only drink black coffee is the gypsum of Mohs hardness.)

But I digress. 

 So, when I come to work, I bring my own K-Cups for the office Kuerig and a bottle of the creamer I like. One day a couple years back, I showed up to my new office. I put my brand new bottle of creamer in one of the four community fridges and went about acclimating to my new office. When I was ready for my 2nd morning coffee (the first having been brought in from home) I went to get my creamer and guess what? 

 It was already opened. And 1/3 gone. 

 W...T...F?!

 I asked the person nearest to the break room if they saw anyone open my creamer, and they replied “no”. Then, the person said to me:

 “Oh, ahh, yeah...did you put your name on it?”

 Me: “No.”

 Them: “Yeah, see, you have to put your name on stuff, otherwise it’s free game.”

 No. No the fuck it is not. 

 Who invented this? What under-or-over breastfed, entitled, thieving, douche-weasel made this a thing?! One does NOT have to label their own food and beverages. Is this elementary school? Do we honestly have to contend with brazen born buttholes who justify taking other people’s property simply because it “wasn’t labeled”? I was unaware a sharpie and/or a Post-it was thief repellent.

 Now, I have to share that this problem, is closer to home than I’d like to admit. 

 My darling wife...mother of my child...my soulmate, the other crippled bird like me, but together we can fly...is a food thief. Not at work, she’s not a villain. But at home, she is a domestic terrorist. A prowling hellcat waiting to pounce on your treats.

 Her justification? “Well, it’s been in there so long and you didn’t eat it.”

 Me: “But...that was my ice cream.”

 Her: “It’s been there in a week, it’s fair game.”

 Me: “It was peanut butter ice cream. My favorite. You don’t even like peanut butter ice cream.”

 Her: “I was out of mine, and you hadn’t finished yours. Besides, I can always get more at the store.”

 Me: “That doesn’t matter. It wasn’t yours.”

 Her: “Whatever.”

 ...Whatever. Whatever? WHATEVER?! “Whatever” isn’t an answer as to why you took what is not yours! You can’t just arbitrarilly assign a length of time to something which isn’t yours to take it! Sigh,...but that is my cross to bear. Her former roommate warned me of this, and I thoguht she was kidding. I married her, my lovely wife, for better or for worse. And now sad panda has no ice cream. 

 It was the good kind too. Peanut butter with chocolate peanut butter cups mixed in. 

 So to you, good people of the world, rip off your labels. Take down your Post-its. You know if you brought in a container of spaghetti. And if you go to get it for lunch and it’s missing, walk around your office, and the first person you smell garlic on, hit them in the skull with their “World’s Greatest”...whatever the fuck mug. As they lay on the floor, bleeding and soaked in their coffee, just say, oops, sorry, I didn’t see a label on that. 

 And, just in case you just struck a random co-worker who happened to have brought in leftover baked ziti, hence the garlic, well...you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. If nothing else, the real thief now knows you mean business and will leave your shit alone. Plus, odds are you just assaulted the same asshole who brings in pictures of their animals and talks about them like their his/her children. 

 So, win-win. 

 Next time, we’ll discuss how to order razor wire and surplus anti-personnel claymore mines from the internet to keep people from parking in YOUR assigned spot. Even if the neighbor’s douchebag friend says it’s only for five minutes, they’re lying. Just off them, trust me, they won’t be missed.