If I ever again have to leave a job, I hope I have the presence of mind to do it this way:
I actually did give a letter of notice. I wrote it that morning, backdated of course, and shoved it under the rat’s nest of papers on BossMan’s desk. Archaeologists, later on in the millenia, find it and say “What does that mean, die in a crotchfire?” To which another archaeologist will sneer, “Let me Google that for you.”
“Crotchfire,” incidentally, is one of very few words that will reliably trigger involuntary leg-crossing.