u/JoeDannyPalmOil

I don't work for NASA, despite how this may sound.

So the last thing I would've expected on a random monday morning, which happens to be 1300 mondays away from my retirement, would've been a giant raise.

And I was right to not expect that, as I didn't get a giant raise.

Instead, I got a giant kick directly up my fucking backside.

Because a creature that must've been sent directly from the deepest corners of fucking space, thought this monday was a better time than any, to come flying, tumbling and shitting into the workplace, at speeds only a donkey running from a candle flame lit to its ass could match.

I counted every monday multiple times to make sure I had it right, and 1300 was the number I ended up on every time.

My brain seems to have an issue accepting this fact as true, because every time I try and imagine how long 1300 mondays will feel, the only thing I can imagine is an IKEA chair with a swedish name so long it'd be capable of causing a seizure followed by a lifelong fucking coma by the mere action of trying to translate it from an unknown alien mating ritual text, into English.

I'm no mathematician, don't get me wrong, but by my calculations, this newly discovered life form choosing the cubicle behind me as it's territory, can be described as one simple problem with one terrifying answer.

C = S X AW = 0

Creature = Soap X Ass Washing = 0.

I'm no Albert Einstein, but if I was, this maths problem would be the easiest and yet also the hardest I've ever solved.

It's so complex yet so un complex, as Albert might phrase it.

Although, Albert won't be phrasing much of anything considering he's dead, and I won't be either considering I'll die of unknown causes by next week.

Unknown to everyone, except my nostrils, that is.

Now you might be saying

"This guy's being dramatic, it can't be that bad"

I'd say you're wrong, but opening my mouth would leave a split second opportunity for the fuckery he calls a "breath" to cause my final breath.

The smell that lingers in the break room is genuinely the only scent that perfectly imitates what depression feels like.

Break room if breaking my fucking tailbone is what manager McGee had in mind while interviewing and then employing what can only be described as an attempt to vacate the building in a plot to avoid paying retirement.

Every time a word is spoken to me, or rather projectile vomited and spit at me, it feels like Satan went to a trampoline park.

Satan couldn't hold it while jumping on the biggest trampoline.

So naturally, Satan took a shit worthy of opioid use accusations as he was mid air.

What exited his horn bearing and tail wearing red as a fucking plum asscrack, bounced right up off that trampoline that he was occupying despite being over the weight capacity by several decimal points.

It bounced once, but flew once it broke the sound barrier.

Directly out of hell, did his shit go.

And like the asteroid that sent the dinosaurs down to Satan, came back up a force of similar power to my workplace.

I thought I was a heavyweight boxer and had just received a punch from prime Muhammad Ali, my soul flew out of my ass.

Only it wasn't done, it had to fly back, through my mouth, punching me right in the fucking chin on its way.

Almost as if my soul was seething in anger that I would allow such a gruelingly gruesome gently gurgle another g word my fucking balls of a Bible burning odour to enter my sacred tomb of a body.

Only now my sacred tomb of a body was only a sacred tomb if the sacred part was from the point of view a group of scientologists hold, as they'd consider a half dried up hedgehogs willy and balls to be the reincarnation of the holy whatever bullshit alien they conjured up last night after a pint of red wine.

So anyway, a waft of God fucking doesn't know what, comes flying into my nostrils, assuming they were recycling bins.

And I had to do the fucking moonwalk to avoid the repulsive pellets of pure misery and despair dancing out of your mouth in my direction, it was like a rehearsal for a group of ballerinas on so much cocaine it'd be measured in the kilograms.

Lethal injection?

Says the lethal injection, injection jectioner.

"No need. Bring exhibit 19 into the room, they'll be dead before the door fully shuts"

Michal Jackson would've taken Billie jean as his love if you were the second option.

When I die my gravestone should be labeled "born in every century" because my nostrils started inventing fucking time travel devices to escape the absolute horrors of fecal matter and overpriced hotdogs made by a chef with a hot dog bun made with his own hot dog kink.

If you went for a therapy session you would end up being the one giving therapy, you could charge triple rates, one for the therapist and one for each nostril.

You must be holding hostage enough crap in your bowels to fuel the US president's twitter account for at least a week.

The once in a full moon bowel movement exiting from your host in the form of a human body must be so earth shatteringly impactful that even jesus himself falls from heaven.

You could singlehandedly push Greenland's depression statistics, which are already one bad day from an extinction event, right over the fucking edge.

"We have no choice, send in the nuke"

Only they meant you, as your name was nuke.

Statistics on alcohol consumption in men aged 30-35 years old changes into statistics on alcohol consumption in men 30-35 miles in the vicinity of your ass.

I'm not even 30-35, but my nostrils are 30-35 months away from the grave.

But despite all that, I said you were fine, not causing any issues.

HR almost jumped back, the same way I jump back every morning when your desk fan thrusts air into my nostrils the same way you bend me over and thrust your disrespect into my behind.

I know your phone password is 1234, but I wouldn't dare unlock it, you likely have a bag full of red kidney beans stored for emergencies, and if I got caught you'd put them to deathly use.

You'd be off sending bullets made of hairs plucked straight off a skunks ballsack compressed so small into a kidney bean that the explosion created when they impact would smell so ever lovingly Christ on a cross bad that it'd transcend the laws of any law fucking invented, because no possible law would allow a nuclear chain reaction in the form of kidney beans exiting a human who'd pass a psychopathy test before the first question is fully fucking spoken.

"Do you feel the need to shit yoursel-"

Well fuck knows what box he ticked on that question.

But I wasn't gonna get you fired, so I only said positive about you, and you'll thank me by kicking me in the balls without even needing to physically touch me, the noxious weapon trying to escape your boxers also happens to be a boxer who thinks my balls is a punching bag.

"Yeah that's the one, yeah no it's out, if you put your contacts in and look extra close under the right lighting conditions, you'll see it's faint shadow."

You ever think about thinking? The next step would be forming a thought, but that'd be far too complex for an organism such as yourself to grasp, no shame it though

There most definitely is shame in that prick though, and the amount of the day you spend grasping it.

Grasping a basic concept?

"No way"

Grasping your fishing rod for the 16 hours that you spend awake every day?

"Please!"

You most definitely aren't on a diet, but that miniscule appendage occupying your waist must be.

A doctor would need to get a microscope, take a photo of the scope zoomed in to the maximum possible allowed setting, use another microscope on top of that photo and take a photo of that.

Then they'd need to enhance the colour filter as much as humanly possible, and sprinkle in a few prayers while it processes.

Because that tiny prick you hold hostage is almost comparably dull to your god awful sense of humor, that'd make Jesus fall from heaven just to experience being on the cross again, as that agony might distract from the agony caused by the sound waves which exit your lips when a joke is regurgitated out the same way a massive crap comes out after 4 weeks of constipation.

You wouldn't be allowed into the military, it'd be considered a war crime.

You could singlehandedly push Greenlands depression statistics, which are already one bad day from an extinction event, right over the fucking edge.

There'd be nobody left, just a giant pandemic of depression.

"COVID 19" followed by "Dead before 19"

The damage would be catastrophic, and all caused by one man, or half man might be a better wording

Statistics on alcohol consumption in men aged 30-35 years old would be almost as high as you.

Mentally high, that is.

You make up for the physical lack of height by always being high on enough drugs to sedate a family of African elephants.

Considering youre 5'5, you don't even need to see the real Eiffel tower, the Paris Las Vegas replica which is half the height would be more than enough.

I doubt you'd even notice the difference down there.

Back on the topic of your miniscule nub, doctor now depressed, also needs to increase size of that image which is already so zoomed in that each pixel is visible from another fucking solar system, by another 1200%.

Just to possibly get a glimpse of whatever horrible, depressing little gnome is hanging off, begging to decay and and restart it's life cycle as anything another than your Johnson if Johnson was fed a diet of palm oil during his prime growth years.

I didn't think much could compete with the smoothness of that thing you call a brain, but this specimen which accompanys you by no agreement of its own, might just be a contender.

You tiny willied, no good, thickheaded, simple minded, big boned bastard.

"Small prick" the doctor says as he sticks the vaccine needle into your arm.

Only, you weren't sure if he meant the vaccine or if he was referring to you, as the description was eerily fitting for both.

I tried reading back on what I just wrote, but I can't see anything mentioning your miniscule phallus, even my words shrink to accommodate