Don’t send a man to do a man’s job

This morning in the break room at work I saw one of the girls struggling to open a pack of muffins.

I laughed.

It wasn’t a malicious laugh to say ‘ha ha, you’re pathetic!’, but more of a little chuckle to say ‘aaw, can’t you open da wittle packety wackety?’

Nothing patronising, you understand.

“Struggling by any chance?” I said, smiling ear to ear as I made coffee.

She let out a sigh of frustration and, with bottom lip fully extended and puppy dog eyes set to maximum, thrust the packet at me (the man) to open it.

I put down my coffee spoon.

“Give it here”, I said in my most manly way and gripped the packaging with both hands, preparing to pull it open as effortlessly as a bag of crisps.

Smiling smugly, I pulled.

But wait. Oh no! It wasn’t opening!

I pulled harder. Nothing.

Oh shit.

I looked up and saw a grin forming at the corners of her mouth.

I pulled with all my strength, but the muffins still remained locked away inside their impenetrable fortress of transparency and deceit.

“OK, this isn’t good!” I said; half playful, half fearful for my masculinity.

No matter how hard I gripped the packaging and pulled at it, this thin plastic treachery to my manhood wasn’t going to open. I thought about tearing a small nick with my teeth to help rip it apart, but it wasn’t my packet of muffins and she may not have appreciated my slobber all over her breakfast.

It was unavoidable, this bastard was going to need scissors.

Admitting defeat, I shamefully handed the packet back to my chuckling colleague and went back to making coffee.

As I left the room I gingerly picked my penis and balls up off the floor and put them in my pocket to be reattached later.

Open the bag

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