Her pale, pebbled flesh hangs like thick plastic drapery from her severely stressed bones. She sits idly in the corner, slumped over the electronic glow of her screen, still as stone, save for her hands which move slightly here and there between operating her sweat stained mouse and keyboard and taking a swig from her seventy two ounce Super-Slurpee®. Every few hours she carefully pricks a fresh, soft scab from her salty flesh and slowly slips it between her lips. Her belligerent body odor and freakishly high rate of respiration makes it painfully hard for the rest of us to breathe. We all blast our individual music in our noise canceling headphones to drown out the perpetual sound of wheezing and random release of gas. Her wardrobe consists of three spaghetti-strap shirts, one pink, one purple and one blue, three pairs of faded teal short-shorts, and a countless supply of trashy translucent slippers. Every time my eyes are assaulted with her presence I have random daydreams about how many rolls of fat she has to pull back before she can defecate, or if she has ever had sex, and if she has had sex was it with an equally disgusting male, or an equally disgusting female, or if she has ever looked in the mirror and said to herself “I’m a fucking burden on society.” With any other person I would feel bad thinking such things, but with her, this behemoth of self-neglect, I don’t feel a single bit of remorse. The only thing on this planet more repulsive than her physicality is her personality.
We all despise her. Every fucking molecule that makes up her massive existence is a reason to hate her. She bombards us every morning with daily gossip about what happened on reality TV last night, who is going to be on Oprah after work, how fucking good of a person Oprah is, what Oprah gave to all the audience members last week, how many pounds Oprah lost in three days, who is fucking who around the office and worst of all what is “wrong with America.” Saliva sprays unpredictably from her mouth like a garden house with the end kinked up, soaking our paperwork and showering our violated faces. Her voice fires unnecessary profanity and valley girl vernacular, verbally raping us with her vile diatribes. We bend over and take it every time, she reaches climax, and we retreat like abused puppies to our noise canceling headphones. Occasionally, the phone will ring and one of us is required to answer. We take turns answering the phone, because whoever answers has to hang up, leaving a moment of silence that becomes an opportunity for another pretentious, uninspired hollow monologue. We avoid her at all costs. Luckily, lunch is never a problem because boy does the bitch love to eat. She leaves early while we continue working and returns well after we finish our separate meals and settle back into our noise canceling headphones. Nine times out of ten she returns wreaking of grease and onions, the scathing sound of dry peeling flesh against dry peeling flesh permeating the room as her gelatinous thighs swish against each other. The remaining times she doesn’t return at all, and I hold extensive mental debates over whether it was the gluttony or sloth that got the best of her on that particular afternoon.
The majority of us keep our work stations neat and orderly, taking ten minutes out of every day to tidy up and get organized. I actually enjoy this part of the day, as I tend to be somewhat of a neat freak. I play classic Cannibal Corpse albums on my noise canceling headphones as I clean clean clean, having vivid, fantastic visions of various acts of violence I could carry out to cure the world of that overgrown malignant cyst that sits in the corner. Every two or three days I come into the office early to vacuum. As I pass over the majority of the office, the high dollar industrial-strength company vacuum runs soft and smooth, purring like a kitten. However, as soon as I vacuum The Behemoth’s area there is a rapid, abrasive clicking sound inside the machine. This is due to the fact that she nonchalantly bites her finger and toenails while taking her hourly “Me-Time” breaks to check her e-mail, MySpace, and various online dating accounts. Fragments of her nails spring about this way and that like an overactive geyser as she gnaws away, stopping here and there to complain about how slow the company’s internet connection is. Sometimes there are so many nail clippings scattered about her station that I can spot a hundred little slivers sticking out of the carpet without even searching. The sound of her nail clippings bouncing about inside the vacuum often makes me queazy. Her god damn nails must grow like weeds. The worst part is that every successful removal of her excess protein ends with a sharp, unmistakable “snap.” This is followed by a two to three minute chewing session and finally brought to conclusion with a sloppy “pfft” as she spits her cuticle onto the carpet. What in the world would I do without my noise canceling headphones.
