Its Not All Gargin-Farppled Plotzminers at Acme Grommets and Gravel

The days just fly by.   Is it any wonder that I remain at Acme Grommets and Gravel?
The chains hardly seem necessary anymore.
What’s best, of course – and I mean this – is the double-wide cubicle I occupy with one-time intern, now-time employee Allen.
O, Allen, you cherubic little keyboard masher you.
Everything seems right in his world, and I feel almost motherly watching him grow into the position.
Almost.
He leans forward, intent upon one of the three screens in front of him.“Yessssssss,” he whispers softly.
Our backs normally turned away from each other, I swivel in my seat.“What up, Gollem?”
“Hmm?”He blinks earnestly in my direction.“Oh.Yes.”He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.“The swivel-hammered bivalved dinkilator responded just as I predicted it would.”
I nod.“But when those dinkilators go down, man…”
He grins.“Chaos.”
We stare at each other for a bit.Somehow, it’s easy to do.
“So I had a thought the other day,” he says.
“About the gargin-farppled plotzminer?”
He shakes his head.“That was last week.Now, I’m thinking about a Happy Hour.”
I blink slowly at him.“Go on.”
“There should be one.”
I grin.“We’ll invite Jen.And Rachael.And Stacy.And Jeff.”
Allen nods sagely.“Jeff,” he says in low tones, “buys once he’s had a couple.”
I turn to my desk, write it down.“Sit near Jeff at HH,” I write.“Find ways to use the letters g-i-n – in that order – in all upcoming correspondences.”
I turn back to relay my plan to get whole bottles of gin out of Jeff, but Allen is back at work.
We really must do something about this guy’s work habits.