If I had to choose one thing that made me want to vomit most, it would be the coughing. Those rasping, phlegm filled hacks; those body convulsing expulsions of lung butter that we, here in the office, so enjoy every six minutes or so.
Or perhaps I’d go with the smell. That odor of stale, urine filled ashtray mixed with the ungodly aroma of what I can only imagine is the Alaskan malamute you so often dote about. I was walking by your workstation last week, you were out with bronchitis, (again) and as I passed your desk, your stench smacked me in the face like a brick. My eyes began to water AND I ACTUALLY DRY HEAVED.
But who can forget the way you look? The giant, tent-like cosby sweaters, the stirrup pants, the billowy leather jacket that surely, in a previous life, was most of a herd of cattle, or at least the interior of a minivan. Your shoulder length, bleached, stripped and thinning hair,; those pompous and dramatic bangs, looping and dangling on your forehead like a writhing sea cucumber.
Your skin tone varies so greatly, how could I choose which one I hate the most? Most of the time its’ color is a tepid, jaundiced yellowish-gray, indicative of your regular diet of processed meats, corn syrup and nicotine, or perhaps a tapeworm. You must certainly rue the day you accepted a job on the second floor of a building with no elevator. When you emerge from that stairwell, your skin tone falls somewhere boiled lobster and the flaming stay-puft marshmallow man. You clutch your knees for support and wheeze until your beet-color fades, and you try to forget the daunting eighteen steps that just kicked your gargantuan ass.
And do you think you garner any sympathy when you whine about the state of your bone structure? Do you think any of us believe that, if you weren’t plagued with a bad back and knees, you’d be running marathons or something? How the fuck do you think you got there in the first place?! I mean, fuck! I can think of car frames that have to support less weight than your unfortunate frame!
And we can’t forget your attitude, now can we? We can’t leave out the fact that you do nothing but talk shit about everyone else in the office. Sure, it’s my bad luck I have to sit within ten feet of you, but nowhere in my contract did it state I would be forced to listen to you flap your gums, to an equally corpulent sack of crap a mere thirty feet away, about how no one in this place does as much work as you!
I almost forgot about the banana bread. You know what I'm talking about. The banana bread you brought to the potluck last Christmas, going on and on about how late you were up baking the night before. That’s right, the banana bread no one ate because tasted like a wet dog. After the Christmas party, you could see plates scattered around the office with untouched slices of that vile bread on each one. I actually remember you saying that imitation banana extract tasted better than real ripe bananas. This must be true because you showed up to work clutching a fucking BANANAS FOSTER CAPPUCINO FROM 7-11!! What species are you!? From what cesspool did you escape to torture me?!
Today, however, you’ve outdone yourself. I was focusing on my computer monitor, trying to forget you were even there, when I heard what sounded like a gas-powered generator coming from your cubicle. I slowly turned and saw you with an oxygen mask on your putrid face. A FUCKING NEBULIZER!? The droning sound of the thing was literally shaking the walls of you cubicle, but as it’s held together with masking tape, that’s not surprising. What was really weird, no one else was looking! You were violently sucking vaporized water from a machine that sounds like a shitty old lawnmower, and no one seems to notice!
Just when I though you couldn’t disgrace yourself any further, you turned off the machine (my ears ringing) and proceeded to stand up, coughing and wheezing as those last alveoli in your lungs, clinging to dear life, tried so hard to pass oxygen into your bloodstream, you slipped on your giant leather coat. YOU STEPPED OUT TO HAVE A SMOKE!
I don’t revel in your impending demise, I just hope I don’t have to smell you.