Gather ‘round, disciples of cubicle doom. For today, the Four Horsemen are not galloping hoofbeats from the horizon – they’re thundering down fluorescent-lit hallways, their steeds buckling under trays of grocery store cannoli and Tupperware brimming with communal fudge. And their harbinger? None other than Dr. Mehmet Oz, daytime TV escapee and now, walking dietary Cassandra of the federal government. Normally, when the end comes, it’s heralded by rivers running red, or at least a low hum of locusts. But no. For the 6,000-plus denizens of the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, Armageddon has arrived in the form of email bulletins—subject line: "Crush Cubicle Cravings!"—from the doctor whose prescription for apocalypse is... eating fewer cookies at the annual Secret Santa. Let’s be clear. This isn’t your grandma’s diet advice. This is Oz, envoy of wellness, telling federal workers to set their intentions and ration their treats, as if a single M&M might tip the scales of fate and render the entire Department of Health and Human Services a glacier of frosting and regret. Gone are days when you could dual-wield paper plates piled haphazardly with chips and fudge; now, Oz decrees, thou shalt not double-fist. One cookie per mortal hand, lest the fabric of snack-based reality unravel. And there’s more—like a prophet howling in the supermarket wilderness, Oz commands: Eat slowly. Savor each bite. At the macro level, this is about listening to your body’s cues. At the micro level, it’s about turning snack time into a 12-step ritual requiring the discipline of a Zen monk and the shame of a holiday office party attendee who brought store-brand brownies (again). Yet, while the bureaucratic throngs hunch over fruit-and-nut platters, disregarding half of their evolved instincts, rumors swirl through the break room like stale coffee steam. Has Oz ever personally conquered the maple pecan scone gauntlet? Did he discover mystical portion control deep within the Siberian tundra, or did a sentient Tupperware whisper macrobiotic secrets into his ear? More to the point, how long before HR starts passing out tasers to enforce the Single Plate Doctrine at White Elephant exchanges? Don’t for a second doubt the cosmic stakes: CMS is the government’s Mount Olympus of red tape and medical fiat. Its Oracle now, it would seem, is a man once famed for miracle beans and odd medical pantomime. The same hands that yanked curtain strings on TV now wag solemn caution against eating too quickly or with too many hands. Petty for some? Yes. A sign that the end is near? Undoubtedly. And yet, while some employees mutter about policy density and billion-dollar high-wire acts, the Ministry of Snacks brooks no dissent. The feedback is positive, claims Oz’s own scribe—an emissary proclaiming all is well as the yogurt-covered raisins run dry and the cubicle detritus of yesteryear gives way to the reign of the mini carrot. So heed these warnings, children of the office wasteland... for if history teaches us anything, it’s that all empires—Roman, Mayan, or Krispy Kreme—are toppled not by hubris, but by that second helping of double-glazed cruller in the break room. The end is nigh, and its name is Portion Control.