There are things I feel very strongly about. I have undying love for breakfast in bed, the banjo, and the two dollar bill. I believe that grown men should not wear sweatpants in public. And I believe in the beer lunch.
Let me put this in perspective. You're at work. Everyone you talk to on the phone is a bitcher or a moaner and they all seem to have decided that you are sub-human and therefore in full need of their entire personal warehouse of invective and slander. Your coworkers are exuding a fog of all-pervasive sullenness and bickering like a Noel Coward couple. It's always 10:42. No matter what.
And then, you take the beer lunch. The sandwich is on a stale white roll, the ham came from a plastic bag, and lettuce is tasteless and crunchy for crunchiness's sake. The TVs are playing a variety of low-rent sporting events: World's Strongest Man, World Series of Degenerate Gamblers, Women's Billiards. But none of this matters. The sandwich is warm and the beer is cold and you aren't at work and your lunch break should've ended ten minutes ago but you push back in your chair and watch some pseudo-obese Scandinavian throw kegs over a 30 foot castle-wall and curse the half-finished Thursday crossword and take your sweet ass time.
Then, you return to work. Suddenly, it's 1:45 and nothing is bothering you. Everyone is going ballistic and you're in a zenlike state of peace and serenity. You aren't drunk by any stretch of the imagination. The important thing is you've left the crappy confines of officedom and taken some time out and the rest of the day is nothing but feet on your desk and the calm completion of your necessary duties.
And that's my assignment today. It's Friday. Have the beer lunch. And call me in the morning.