Today we had a staff meeting. It was hell.

There are currently three-hundred employees in the Corporate Accounts office, and I was only able to requisition a two-hundred person room. Now, as you can imagine, the centralized office is a host to the fattest of the fat where people sit at their desks nine, ten, sometimes twelves hours a day (if I have anything to say about it), mindlessly working and not getting any physical activity.

Well, after my forty-five minute presentation on Space Management the room was sweltering. You know how they say blubber is a natural insulator for creatures living in arctic climates? Well, it doesn't really keep the heat in on humans as much as it seems to radiate it like a fucking space heater.

Three-hundred overweight, sweaty, mouth-breathing mammoths packed in tighter than a can of sardines, stewing in their own corpulence for two hours. It was a sauna. A living, breathing, stinking, wheezing sauna.

Next time I think I'll try to get this done outdoors. Let the fatties sweat it out under the baking sun. I might even enforce a formal business dress code just to make it worse on them--a little sweating might do these people some good.

If only there was a way to harness all of that energy...like a fat person battery cell. I could strap little electrical belts around each of their bulbous midsections and leech away their energy and use it to power my house.

Used-to-be-Cute girl from Accounting was there. Front row. I hate overachievers. I think I might have to eat her.

There are two kinds of people in this world who actually matter: Fat People and Fit People—everyone else can go suck a lemon.

                I am so sick of all the fat people at my office. It's like a plague, or some kind of insidious disgusting pig-inducing virus. First the cute girl in accounting gets pregnant, puts on twenty pounds of "baby fat" and four months after the baby's out she's a fucking land whale. Yeah? Baby fat? You're not even pregnant anymore, you stupid slut! Go to the gym! Next thing you know everyone's sneaking an extra candy bar or bag of chips or entire fucking pie at lunch.

                Well, I've about had it with these fatties. I shouldn't have to be subjected to this sort of treatment—staring into the doughy eyes of corpulent beasts day in and day out. I'm an attractive, fit, well-muscled man in his thirties, damn it! I should be out banging some hotties or following a car full of hotties en route to a mass-banging, or at least being invited to an all-girl orgy to sit silently in the corner and watch.

                I think I'm going to write a corporate memo and sent it to the entire office; here's a rough draft:

Dear Staff,

It has come to my attention that many of you have decided to shirk your responsibilities as sensible, hard-working individuals who care about your physical appearance as it reflects the character of the company as a whole. I will be reducing the salary of anyone overweight by twelve pounds 30% starting July 5th, 2012. This gives you roughly six weeks to get your fat asses into shape.

Anyone with concerns about this change in corporate policy, please come speak with me privately in my office.

Your best interests in mind,

Jerry Brandt

Manager of Corporate Accounts

                In case you're wondering, any fatty that comes into my office to complain gets fired on the spot. Maybe that will actually work, who knows? It could be against some kind of business ethics or something, but I'm not really sure, I never read the code of ethics when I became Manager. And why should I? I'm the boss. I'm more important than the pencil-pushers down in training who write this crap.

                There's this one particularly fat monster I see every day at work:  giant fat rolls hanging over her elbows, face sagging from the weight of her overstuffed cheeks, clothes practically ripping apart at the seams—why is it that fat women think they are entitled to wear anything other than a giant garbage bag? it's disgusting how tight her clothes are. Anyway, I always see her out in the lounge area sitting in a rather large seat (large enough to accommodate at least two relatively fit women), her fat rolls spilling out over the armrests, huffing and wheezing like she's a damn emphysema patient. Well, maybe she is an emphysema patient, but she should save the wheezing until after work hours; that shit is annoying.

                I might kill her, I don't know.

                The dummy from Customer Relations who sniffles all the time asked me if she can ask me a question the other day.

                Nothing pisses me off more than that.  

                I'd slap her fat face if I could get away with it. Maybe even punch her teeth out, or poke her damn eyes out with a pen. What kind of bullshit is that? "Can I ask you a question?" You just asked me one, didn't you? Or should I wait until you file a formal request, get it approved by Legal, then mail it to me via certified mail to ask me that question before I answer it? You damn dyke.

                To give you a little insight, this wildabeast sits out front of my office—they really should keep the herd out of earshot of the shepherds, don't you think? —and always sitting there at her fat little desk, typing on her fat little keyboard, with her fat little fingers. Sniffing her fat little nose. It's non-stop with these sniffs.

                I tried to be nice by passing an e-mail to the floor about being courteous and mindful of your  surroundings, keeping repetitive and annoying noises to a minimum. Didn't work. Maybe it was too subtle. Maybe she needs a real kick in the ass—nothing garnishing her wages and charging it to soundproofing my office won't fix.

                Maybe today I'll just fire her. Sure she has kids and is pregnant with another one, but it isn't my fault she can't keep her legs closed or her nose clean. I'm a corporate manager for fuck's sake, why should I have to suffer this kind of abuse?

                She's fat, too. Figures. Well, not fat fat, but pregnant fat—same difference. After she shits out the little sniffer she'll probably keep on 15 pounds or so like all the other slobs. Why don't people have more respect for their bodies? Makes me sick.

                About the only thing fat people are good for is eating—is that ironic? I can never tell.