Pungent Co-worker

I work in an professional office. I make a decent living and generally enjoy and excel at my profession. I share a 16" x 20" room with one other person. The problem is, this individual is undoubtedly the most disgusting troll I have ever come across in my life.

During my initial interview, I sat across the table from my future co-worker and noticed a super sickening smell. This lady was dressed like a cracked out gypsy hobo. Ragged, tattered, unclean attire. Tacky homemade jewelry that looked too cheap for a scarecrow to wear. Brittle hair that resembled a rat's nest. Again, we work in a professional office setting where we meet with customers on a regular basis and occasionally venture outside the workplace on business. Man, I should have known better.

Dude, my co-worker hasn't washed her clothes in over nine years. This is fact. She told me so. Her family doesn't even own a washing machine. (I'm not even going to get into what her dirtbag husband looks like!) They believe that the body's natural oils are exuded for a reason and should not be washed away. That is the most disgusting thing I have ever heard. Humans need to cleanse themselves to get rid of dead skin. Dead skin is just that, human tissue that is extinct. And when human tissue dies, it begins to rot. She seriously emits an odor not unlike that of an unfortunate highway roadkill. Like a dead animal. A rotting corpse.

She has cats. Lots of them. I would tell you how many, but even she doesn't know. "More than 13" she says. And I know she isn't lyng, because her little feline friends often used her clothes as a litterbox. I shit you not. The lady smells like cat piss. Enough so to make your eyes burn when within close proximity. And the only thing worse than cat piss is old cat piss. It's nauseous fumes are almost dizzying. On the plus side, in my tenure at this company, I have learned to exclusively mouth breathe and when she is in my general vicinity, I can easily hold my breath for more than 60 seconds witout even flinching. Maybe this is how Houdini got his start?

My situation is embarrassing. When my parents ask me "How is work going?" I would rather not delve into my rotten reality. I have confronted our boss about this nauseating nuisance on several occasions and I get the speech of how she's been with the company for XX amount of years and how he promises to mention something. The entire office steers clear of our work area, for they all are aware of the offensive odor. of the I would say something myself to the lady, but I also failed to mention that she is the meanest witch I have ever met. An evil, hateful, self-centered, paranoid gutter-bitch.

The lady is not poor. I know how much money she makes. She is just a mean, filthy wench who thinks she is better than everyone else.  Her kids sleep on a freekin' pool raft.  This is fact.  I am trapped in a revolting room with this despicable dirtbag.

Modern America Culture Must Be Destroyed

“When walking in open territory, bother no one. If someone bothers you, askhim to stop, If he does not stop, destroy him” -Anton Szandor LaVey

Tuesday morning, 11:39 am. I was working quite assiduously within the confines of my 8′ x 8′ cubicle, my Yoda statuette gazed upon me from atop my computer tower as my picture of Nick Nolte hung from my wall, lighting my path for work eternal. I had just reloaded my stapler with a fresh hundred and was en route to the drinking fountain to fluid up.

As I mazed thru the aisles, I could mildly hear different songs being pumped out of personal radios and stereos. Around the first turn, I could vaguely make out “Heart & Soul” by Huey Lewis which unintentionally bleed into a shitty Michael Bolton ballad as I trekked on. Nearing the H2O dispenser, I was even greeted by some Billy Idol, to which I pointed at the desk jockey and uttered a felicitous “Nice!”

Absorbing the stray water droplets with my sleeve, I began to walk back to my desk. As I turned a corner, I was met by an immovable roadblock, a 450 pound heathen tenderly referred to as “Big Cindy.” Wide as the mobile home she was born in and thicker than Eugene Levy’s eyebrows, Big Cindy’s sheer mass and glacier-like movements detoured my path to another aisle.

As I returned to my cube, a cruel and unfeeling sound caught my ear. It beckoned my aggression like a 30 point buck on the first day of deer season. There was no musical force being projected, just the revolting, pierced-nipples-scraping-a-chalkboard sound of southern drawl chatter and canned laughter. Distracted from my work, I tried to ignore the broadcast. With each passing second, the volume seemed to increase at a feverish pace. My once docile temper was now starting to blaze, like an inserted tampon dipped in Tabasco.

As time elapsed, the audio became more vivid. I could distinguish words, phrases and again, the atrocious sound of a laugh track. I looked down at my hands. My fingers started to curl, nails angled toward my palm as if I was clutching an invisible hush puppy. My chin stiffened and my lips formed a sneer that would make Charles Bronson move out of my path. My eyebrows angled downward, mimicking a pair of devilish arms stirring a kettle of witches brew. I couldn’t tolerate it any more…
I stood up, at full attention, ready to go to war. I can respect and admire those who fight for a worthy cause that they wholeheartedly believe in. Thru the course of history, many men have died in the line of duty, ensuring freedom and independence for their fellow man. I was ready to do the same, torid the office of this ghastly noise. Then I remembered this past Saturday night and the delicious Mad Anthony’s Ale that I consumed. I recalled the deathless quote of General Anthony Wayne, “I’ll storm hell if you only plan it.” These were enlightening words from the wise warlord. I should contrive a course of action, to forge a fool-proof assault to rid and waste this audio annoyance.
The duty was carried out with the professionalism and military precision of a sideburned Eisenhower. Undetected and unseen by the opposition, like a “kick me” sign on a sixth-graders back, the mission was deemed a complete success.

Later on in the afternoon, after returning to my homebase, I properly and inhumanely disposed of the enemy. The feeling was euphoric. Too intense for bliss…too passionate to be merely gratified. No longer would I be belittled by these barking backwooded buttfucks. This was it. The commodore of the Bearded Infantry had sounded defeated General Cleanface in the battle of Widows Peak. I knew that with my actions, I indirectly assured that the south would never rise again.