Jet airliner shot from sky. Famine horror, millions die.

An old lady rushed into my office not ten seconds after I'd sat down to tell me that she and another old lady couldn't believe that I would "show so much shoulder" (example) at work, and that if I worked for her, I'd be sent home to change. Although my instinct was to spring out of my chair and over my desk to beat her within inches of her life, I remained calm.

While I formulated a polite way to tell her to keep her Victorian-era commentary to herself, she began prattling on about how I might be more suited to working in a contemporary shop or perhaps a "second-hand clothing store," and asked if I had read What Color is Your Parachute, a book designed to help one choose the career they are best suited for.

First of all, my parachute is black and it didn't deploy. It got caught on someone's satellite dish just long enough to hang me before my mutilated carcass plunged to the earth. Secondly, I'll be sure to come to work tomorrow in my powdered Amadeus wig and bustle dress. Thirdly, fuuuhuhuuuck yooou.