Smelly Fuck

I started a new job a few months back. Prior to this, I’d worked almost exclusively from home for over five years. That’s not really as great as it sounds, and in a lot of ways it’s nice to be back in an office environment.

Except there’s this one guy who works on my floor who completely fucking smells. Thankfully I don’t directly work with the guy, but I can walk down an empty hall and still know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this smelly fuck was there recently by the telltale B.O. trail he leaves. Imagine if you ate a giant Sam’s Club size jar of dill pickles, puked them all over a sidewalk and then pissed on them. Leave them there for three or four hours on a hot august day, and you’ll get a pretty good approximation of what this choad smells like. And strongly too. I swear, if this guy smelled any worse you’d be able to actually see the odor. If I’m heading to the men’s room and see this reeking fuckwad coming out, I keep walking. I’ll hold it in, thank you very much. The discomfort in my bladder is magnitudes more pleasant than the discomfort in my nose would be.

But here’s the crazy thing: This smelly fucker is a good looking guy. He’s tall and fit and has those chiseled facial features the ladies seem to love. He looks kinda like Brad Pitt. I know I sound totally gay saying this stuff, but come on, I’m not afraid to say I can recognize male beauty. I mean, I know what I wish I looked like, right? Anyhow, the guy could be a male model or something, providing the fumes didn’t damage the photography equipment.

And this fucker, blessed with good genes, can’t be bothered to wash his crotch and armpits every morning? Christ, I’m fat, balding, pale and hairy, but I’ve got the god-damned common courtesy to take a shower every morning before I go to work. Shit, I even brush my teeth and put on deoderant!

I figure he doesn’t know. He must not, because if he did he’d damn well do something about it. I wonder if he looks in the mirror and thinks, “Damn, I look good. How come I can’t get any pussy?” Because you smell like a fucking slaughterhouse, pal. I wish somebody would tell him. I can’t do it, I don’t even know the guy.

But here’s the worst part. Me and Mr. Pungent work on the 5th floor, and right below us on the 4th is customer service, which seems to be almost entirely staffed with hot 19 year-old college girls. Occasionally, I’ll get stuck on the elevator with this reeking bastard. That in itself is horrible, but then some hot 19-year-old girl will inevitably get on on the way down, and who is she gonna think the smelly fucker on the elevator is? The really good-looking guy or the fat son-of-a-bitch? In the mind of some hot young thing, I fucking stink, and I can’t have that.

So here’s what I do. If I’m waiting for the elevator, you know, already pressed the button, and he shows up I say “oh shit!” and pretend like I forgot something back at my desk. To make matters worse, the elevators are secluded between two closed doors, so if you go through one of those doors, you must be heading for the elevator. And of course the doors are solid, so you can’t see if anybody’s already waiting on the other side. This means sometimes I’ll walk into the elevator area and he’ll already be waiting there. In these cases, I say “oh shit!” and pretend like I forgot something back at my desk.

I’ll bet I’m not the only person to discover this stench avoidance tactic. I’ll bet this foul fuck thinks he works with a lot of forgetful people. No, we’re not forgetful. You smell like an outhouse filled with roadkill.