the new pollution

As some of you may recall, I was recently downgraded from an office to a cubicle here at work. I did my best to suck up the disappointment and embarrassment because causing a scene is not really my style.

Um, usually.

Prior to the move, my office neighbor approached me and said, "If it wasn't shitty enough that you're losing your office, I hear that we'll both be flanked on either side by some obnoxious guy who's a real loud talker."

This was a troubling development but, again, I did my best to just suck it up and deal. However, after about five minutes of occupying my new seat, I discovered that the rumors were in fact true... and he was sitting right.next.to.me.

I believe this is what you call adding insult to injury, my friends. The situation is far from ideal. If he was at least friendly, I'd try to cut him some slack. But he's a complete douche. And an eyesore, to boot! He's all oily-looking and sounds winded whenever he talks.

He also visits the bathroom with alarming frequency. It's noticeable because he even walks to the john loudly. It's uncanny. Theories as to why he's in there so much range from chronic masturbation to coke addiction to frequent urination due to an enlarged prostate. Actually, those three are my theories and mine alone. I'm not sure anyone else has given it much thought.

Furthermore, he sniffles and clears his throat louder than I thought humanly possible. He fidgets and fusses at his desk and frequently peers over into my cube. I really don't care for this practice in particular. Since I can't really hang up curtains or some nice blinds, I think my only option is to aim a gun at him the next time he does it.

Picture it: He slowly rises into his creepy prairie dog pose and meeting him at nose-level is a double-barreled shot gun. You know, kind of like the one Elmer Fudd carried around when he was hunting wabbit.

Fear not, the gun would contain the same kind of ammunition used in cartoons where the only injury sustained is a blackened, gun powder-filled face and crispy, teased hair.

Or, on a day I was feeling rather cheeky, perhaps I could launch a preemptive strike and shoot him in the ass. Oh relax! It's not like he'd bleed out or anything. Cartoon ammo, remember? The only trauma he'd suffer is that his red-and-white polka-dotted underwear would be revealed through a blast-shaped hole in his pants. Again, just like in the funny pages. I'm not out to kill the man... just ruin his complexion and perhaps a nice pair of trousers.

Today he took his bad cubicle etiquette to a new level. I've come to expect the egregious use of speakerphone and his Chris Matthews-like manner of speaking, what with the ear-splitting volume and baffling inflection, but this is the day we entered into brand new territory.

Today, my friends, I was treated to a deluxe combo platter of burps and farts, with some productive nose-blowing thrown in for good measure. It was symphonic at times. At one point, he reached a crescendo which reminded me of that scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off when Ferris had all the bodily function noises programmed into his keyboard and then proceeded to play "The Blue Danube" waltz. :: WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze. WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze.::

You get the idea...

A loud fart punctuated the gruesome medley, after which a palpable tension and discomfort filled the air. Mercifully, those elements did not rendezvous with a noxious smell. Thank God for small, odor-free mercies.

The quiet didn't last long because I began giggling uncontrollably. You know, because I'm five. My less-than-subtle sniggering made the woman to my right laugh loudly which then made me giggle even more.

It showed no signs of stopping so I thought it wise to walk away from the crime scene and get the giggle out of my system in a neutral zone.

Good plan, right? Wrong. Unfortunately, I timed my escape at precisely the same moment the gas man decided to haul (noisy) ass to the bathroom. Of course there was a near collision which set me off into another fit of giggles right in the poor man's face, which then caused the woman to my right to laugh even harder.

I disengaged from the awkward tangle and then staggered into the nearest open office still laughing, which unleashed an infectious wave of chuckling among two other women who didn't even know the details of the fart-fueled fracas. Once they found out, however, the laughter reached a fever pitch, which no doubt was overheard by the gas man who was hiding out in the men's room.

Ten bucks says he's doped up on Beano tomorrow. At least I hope he is.

we are the goon squad and we're coming to town

Dear Grown Men and Women Who Wear Denim Shirts (or Any Article of Clothing, Really) Adorned with Embroidered "Looney Tunes" Characters:

Um, could you not?

Thank you,
Curly McDimple