i steal fat peoples' sandwiches
This story occurred shortly after I got my first job as programmer. Two things to note:
1. Everybody stores their lunches in the refigerators in the cafeteria. There is a system where you label your food with your name, or else the janitor will throw your shit out. This system is also supposed to prevent confusion regarding ownership of food. In theory, this is a decent system. In reality, this is pretty much the dumbest thing ever. You will see why in the story.
2. While at work, I maintain a very professional demeanor. I act like a gentleman, I'm always extremely polite, I never cuss, and always speak properly. I create meangingless conversation about everybody's day and flash smiles to everybody. I'm especially nice to the people I hate at work, because I believe in professionalism. Mostly though, it's to avoid suspicion.
I work at a programming company, so the majority of workers are dudes. Any combination of socially awkward, fat, pale-skinned or pony-tail-having douchebag could pretty much wrap up the entire company. Human Resources (HR), like most HR departments, is full of chicks. Somehow the HR department for my company just happens to pull in every type of chick that is a nightmare for any man in their mid twenties. The HR department is quite literally full of soccer moms, cankles, senior citizens and pregnant bitches. I don't particularly enjoy their company, but for the most part, they're at least pretty pleasant people.
Except for one fatty bitch who we'll call Polly (doesn't Polly just sound like a fatass?), who was the office manager. I was never quite sure what an office manager does, but I know every office has one, and she's usually making coffee or fucking up the settings on the A/C or something. At any rate, the width of her body was about equal to her height. For those of you who are unfamiliar with geometry: she basically looks like a big fucking ball with a mouth. Her semi-formal ware always hung on for dear life, and as with many plus sized women, her cleavage had no fucking shame. She constantly sweated and breathed hard as if everything from standing up to sitting down was laborious. She was very full. I want to avoid the word voluptuous here because that always makes me feel like there's a sexual connotation. There's nothing sexual about a fat, sweaty woman. At any rate, the fatness of her isn't the focus of this story.
One afternoon I was walking back to my cubicle, when Polly grabbed me in the hallway and asked me to help her out with some random task. At work I do my best to come off as a very generous gentleman, so I told her I would always be willing to help out a lady in need.
It turned out she needed me to move around all these huge ass mats along the lobby because it was raining outside and people needed to wipe their feet. I started to unroll the mats and shift them around when I realized she was just standing there watching me with her stubby arms resting on her hips. I didn't need her fucking help but it'd be nice to actually work together. If anything her fat ass was probably unfit to be doing any of this hard work, but well, it's the thought that counts. Instead she opted to just standing there barking out orders and getting fatter.
Fine, you're right. I shouldn't be so mean to her just because she's fat. I realize that it's not her fault. Everybody's bodies are different and have different metabolisms. For example, her body probably converts oxygen into calories. Anyways, the focus of this story isn't that she's a fatass. The focus is that she's a lazy unthankful bitch.
About half an hour passed while I moved these mats around while she waddled around me telling me what to do. Once I finished, she inspected the mats and decided that everything had to be moved over again. What the fuck? I spent thirty fucking minutes moving shit around on the behalf of a fat worthless office manager who makes shitty coffee and suddenly, my work wasn't good enough? I was fucking pissed by this time, but I went ahead and finished moving everything around (again), and politely went my way.
Later that day, I was in the cafeteria rummaging for a gatorade to steal from the old guy I hate at work, not because I was thirsty, but because I hate his ass. This old fuck called me out in front of my boss about a mistake I made on a project once. Since it's a professional environment, I'm usually not very confrontational, and I prefer the satisfaction of revenge without causing a mess. Stealing gatorades works just fine for me.
Then I saw it; a big ass sandwich with a small label on it that read, "Polly." Thousands of awesome images flashed through my head; what dressing should I provide for this tasty hoagie? Perhaps some pubes? Wipe my ass with the bread? Fart on the lettuce? Maybe dip one end of the sandwich in the toilet? There were too many things going through my head and I couldn't stop laughing. Instead I took the sandwich back to my cubicle and ate it.
I left a small post it note in the fridge where the sandwich was, that read:
Dear Polly,
I think you've had one too many of these.
Why would anybody ever question the integrity of the quiet, polite asian guy in the corner? Revenge is sweet.
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I think you've had one too many of these.