No one has to get hurt here, alright? Just calmly full-screen a spreadsheet on your computer, quietly tip-toe out of the office, slowly pick up a Whitman's Sampler at the corner store, and drive immediately to the house of that asthmatic fatso freshman whom you used to mercilessly towel whip just to see his titties jiggle. Give him the box of chocolates — while resisting the urge to include any purple nurples, get down on your knees, and grovel, dammit! Apologize a thousand times over. Or you'll end up like Norman Johnson. And you don't want to end up like Norman Johnson.