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June 10, 2011

My letter to the guy at my office who thinks that I don't know he farts.

Do you not know the festering smell of your asshole is like watching birth? Some may think it’s a beautiful thing but to the rest of us it’s disgusting.  There was a time when we were cavemen and farting was probably the thing to do while you were working. Not anymore. As I sit in my cubicle day after day I watch the poo particles from your ass pile up on my desk; I try not to murder you by stuffing a chuck of shit down your throat.

I feel like I’m secretly being Dirty Sanchezed by air. 

I don’t like you to begin with because you are also the all around smelly guy in general. Everyday I don’t know what smell to expect to come wafting off of your body like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloon. It’s just one giant gust of stink after the other.  Some days these balloons are deflated but one thing is for sure I will hear you farting.

I know you think you are being sly.  I know you think I don’t know you fart, but I do.  I hear you.  You don’t squeeze it out silent enough.  Your chair cushion is not absorbing the sound.  The sounds that your farts make echo like the screams of the souls stuck in hell in my ears.  

What makes you think that the vibration from your ass is quieter than a cell phone in someone’s pocket?  It’s not.  I’m probably going to punch you someday. 

Maybe if we were friends it would just be silly, but I hate you.

I bought a fan because I thought it would blow the smell away. I was wrong. It’s just as smelly, but now with a breeze.

I’m going to call you out on your open cubicle farting.  I’m going to let everyone in the office know that you are making them ingest your fart cells.  Then I will probably poop on you.  Not on your face. Just on your big toe.