Your eyes, your lips, your incredibly small salad

Last week, I returned from an extended lunch break (during which I shared with a coworker a plate of suicidally delicious albacore sashimi, you should know) to find a rolled-up poster lying on my chair. Expecting the worst, I began to unroll it. Slowly, teasingly, the ad to your left revealed itself to me inch by inch: virginal white table cloth; virginal white plate spooning virginal white saucer caressed lightly with salad; shining head of champagne bottle, cork popped, peeking delicately from a sheath of steel ice bucket; dainty hand tilting a crystal champagne flute toward the fire burning in the background; and, finally...

This guy.

Look at him. Look into his eyes. "Hello," he purrs. "I am wearing a shirt."

You back away in horror. "No," you think, "this can't be---that salad is so refreshing, so small, its water-rich vegetables bursting with fertility beside a glistening phallic..."

"Hello," he interrupts. "C-A-T."

As I looked down at the pseudo-seductive tableau in dismay, I heard Asia laughing behind me. "Anything I can do to help turn you on," she quoted. We decided that the wealth of shirt guy should be shared with our coworkers and promptly tacked him up beside the water cooler. There he sits, all day, inviting you to join him at his table, share his beverage, look into the horrifically blank sockets begging desperately for identity above his cheekbones. "Hello," you can almost hear him whisper. "Ear. Shoe."