Comb Over Fuck Up

Comb over

What’s worse than coming to work and seeing a Dilbert comic posted in your cubicle with the name of the character covered in white-out with my name replacing it. Hilarious. Maybe hearing the fat-fuck in the next cube over farting up a storm all day. That’s worse. Or what is even worse is when it eventually wafts my way. Yeah, you’re ugly and you stink, no wonder why your wife left you.

Lunch time. Great, fat-fuck happens to come in the lunch room with his lard bucket lunch just a minute after I finish my stupid sandwich hoping to get in some study time. I ate extra fast so I could have more time to study (I call it the 5-55 rule). “Hey, you don’t need to stay in here if you are done eating!” Yeah, I want to volunteer my lunch so I can have the pleasure of pretending to work instead, stupid comb-over fuck-up. Fill up that colon with some of your compressed shit stink why don’t you.

At least I get break time eventually. “What do you need a break for? You don’t smoke.” Yeah, I guess you need at least 6 to make sure every orifice stinks. You smoke so much your shit smells like smoke. And you shit so much that smoke alarm nearly goes off. I hope there is so much tar in your system that someday your cold blackened heart stops while I watch and I don’t have to do anything to help because I took a short lunch so now it’s time to go home.

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