Today I’m introducing a coworker to you that offers quite a bit of unintentional comic relief for me throughout my time at the office. I’d like you to meet Farty McFarterson.
Farty is that guy that always talks to you when you don’t want him to, always states the obvious (several times until someone tells him to ‘shut up’) and laughs hysterically at things that aren’t funny, AT ALL. He’s the guy that says your name and then sings a song about it because somehow the sound of your name triggered a reaction leading to the song “Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” which he then sings every time he sees you. He’s the creep that uses his grand girth as a means to accidentally grab your butt when walking past because he can’t fit through the space unless his hand makes contact with your @ss. He’s the guy that you tell something to 50 times and he still doesn't remember. He’s the guy that everyone wonders how the heck he still has a job.
Farty is also the guy that waddles (and I say waddle because Farty consists of an exceptional amount of mass unlike anything you have ever before perceived with your eyes) past your desk leaving behind a train of gag-reflex inducing odorous emissions.
I like to call these “Drive By Bombings”.
I write about this today, because already, and it’s only 10:52am, I have been victim of 3 drive by bombings. THREE. The last of which forced me to evacuate the premises until air quality control could sustain itself and the normal, odorless air could return: about 20 minutes overall.
I’m hoping that whatever is happening inside that creeper subsides sometime soon because I have work to get done and if I have to keep vacating the premises to avoid being asphyxiated by toxic fumes, I’ll never get a thing finished.
It’s hard to explain to Bossman why I’m standing in the hallway alone, not working, “Uh, Farty is releasing toxic emissions into the atmosphere and I was afraid for my life”? Or perhaps, “Bossman, I cannot work under these hostile conditions. I feel my life is being threatened with every breath I take. I can feel my brain cells dying. Is that what you want? Do you want my brain cells to die? “
Usually all I say is, “Farty is having some intestinal issues today, apparently.”
Bossman says, “Uh, then I guess I’ll be away from my desk a while in case anyone is looking for me.”
I like to refer to this evacuation period as the Fart Fiesta.
*Photo by Louise Daddona - http://louisedaddona.artspan.com/
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