Look, I understand. Really, I do. This job makes great demands on your time, and there’s only just so many hours in a day; and of necessity, some items will be shuffled to the obscure backwaters of your priority lists.
Furthermore, I understand that there are some physiques, which for purposes of discussion we’ll refer to as ‘well-insulated’, that make above-average demands on even the most formidable industrial-strength deodorants.
What troubles me is your inability to grasp that your lackadaisical attitude towards personal hygeine is NOT
compensated for by having doused yourself in a jeroboam of cheap perfume; they are, in fact, made much, much worse. I scarcely exaggerate when I say there are visible waves of odious volatiles rising around your considerable bulk, a sort of miasmatic nimbus that reminds one most charitably of Pepe Le Pew cartoons.
This is bad enough when one has the misfortune to find themselves in your pungent blast radius in the parking garage; but within the confines of an elevator, the effects are physically painful. Your portable shitmosphere becomes concentrated enough to sterilize septic tanks, strip paint from abbatoirs, and curdle milk while it’s still in the cow. Even after you’ve departed, your lingering calling-card can make the most stoic strongman weep quietly and pray for the loving arms of death.
I don’t know what circumstances led you to believe that this was acceptable, because it’s not. Nor is this a blanket condemnation of heavyset people; indeed, Reubenesque ladies are typically my preference. YOU, however, are a festering blight on an otherwise-enjoyable workplace. And not suprisingly, subtlety is lost on you; no amount of breath-holding, quiet coughing, or mass migrations upwind seem to drive the point home.
So until someone summons the will to break with the conventions of office pleasantries and either (a.) issues gas masks or (b.) tells you what a disgusting fucking WARTHOG FROM HELL you are, we’ll all continue to curse your pestilent existence.
Bitch.
