Boss: How's work? Dilbert: Well, since you asked... it's like being trapped in a garbage compactor and no one can hear me scream. All my hopes and dreams have died, along with my immune system and my dignity. The only thing keeping me alive is that food tastes good. I tried to escape into my imagination, but I learned I don't have one. My life has no meaning. Each second is a slow-motion ordeal. Why do I get the feeling you weren't listening to any of that? Boss:My day was good too.
Man: I'm a foodie. Are you foodie too?
Dilbert: I think of food as fuel.
Man: But you enjoy eating good food, right?
Dilbert: I try to avoid food that tastes good. That way, I won't overeat. I usually just check my plate for any stray bandages, and that's about it. If my food passes that test, I shovel it toward my mouth while reading stuff on my phone.
Man: I don't think I can be your friend.
Dilbert: That worked out better than I hoped.