I've mentioned in another post that I work in a typical cubicle farm whose bureaucratic culture supports a caste system the currency of which is privacy. All offices are inhabited by managers or quasi-managers who are sometimes called team leads, which itself laughably implies the whole "We're all in this together, right TEAM? Except of course that I get an office and get to CLOSE MY DOOR!" Well, as if constructed to add insult to injury, some of these prized oases of sanctuary from the teeming masses are located mere feet away from some poor sap's open-air hovel. I am, as you probably have guessed by now, one of those poor saps. My little home away from home from which I can hear, see and smell just about every human experience save perhaps a gangrenous limb, is a cube as they are affectionately known. Somehow cube is even worse than cubicle; it really brings home the whole notion of tiny confinement, like something out of an old episode of Star Trek where the crew were captured by a vastly more intelligent species with giant, pulsing heads to prove how smart they were, and held in a zoo where they all lived in their own, little clear plastic cube of imprisonment for the bemused public to view at their leisure. At least we aren't made to procreate. Well, at least not ALL of us, but that's another post.
Anyway, here I am, day after day, sitting and "working" and waiting for lunch to begin in my cube when right across the aisle, so close I can almost reach out touch the cheap doorjamb, is an office occupied by one of those quasi-managers. Decent enough guy, keeps to himself, bad jokes are present but blessedly few. So far so good, right? WRONG! On any given day this joker has a steady stream of VISITORS that do NOT share his penchant for quiet obscurity. They talk, they laugh, they "banter" (hateful word) and they basically DRIVE ME FUCKING CRAZY!!! One sap comes by at least four times a day to check in on "the market", as in "how's the market doin' BIG GUY?" And then proceeds to blather forth as if he's some kind of Harvard business school grad hedge fund manager and it's all I can do to keep myself from grabbing the ubiquitous coffee cup out of his hand and smashing it into his stupid little skull.
"How's the market doing now, DICKWEED? You see any answers to your investment questions floating around your head with all the little stars and birdies? How about this for an answer: SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
The ABIB is not the ABIB for nothing, folks. I am one Angry Ass Bitch and depending on the day of the month, the position of the planets and the general functionality of my digestion I can be downright eeevul. Anyway, this post did not promise to be about a coffee-cup toting, self-deluded dabbler in the market, but about WEEBLES!
So, of all the visitors that "Team Leader With Office" gets, the one who inspires the most outrageous combination of hatred, bewilderment and downright freak show curiousity level of interest has got to be, hands-down, the one I call The Weeble. I've described him to others a million times but just like you can't tell a man who's cold what it feels like to be warm, this freak of nature is just, plain undescribable. I will begin the the physical facts as I observe them:
Dude stands about 5'7" tall
Waist circumference: roughly 75 inches
Pants size worn: probably a 42" waist
Wait, ABIB, you cry out with dismay! How can this be? A waist of 75 inches and pants with a waistband of 42 inches! Even you, with your math phobia must see the mistake there! Not so, Doubting Thomases, not so. The Weeble wears his pants around his 42" ASS!!!!! The 75" belly is hanging out there like some kind of freakish, giant sandbar. I mean it is HUGE!!! The only way he doesn't fucking fall forward is by leaning way back when he walks and then waddling from side-to-side. Is it coming to you? Weebles WOBBLE, BUT THEY DON'T FALL DOWN!!!
I've tried to surreptitiously take pictures with my cell phone camera but I've never been able to catch the absolute ridiculous view that is afforded by an in-person peep at this moron. The most amazing power that he seems to possess is that he can somehow defy gravity with his belt. Those pants are literally, LITERALLY, fastened at the crack of his ass, if he has an ass, that is because what appears below the belt line is totally flat. I can't believe I admit that I actually looked! But again, it's like a car wreck YOU CAN'T NOT LOOK! So, how do his pants stay up? The ass is flat, the belly is of an otherworldly proportion and that single, little belt keeps those fucking khakis from just dropping down around his (almost surely) hairless little ankles.
I've told coworkers that for $100 I'd run up behind him one day (he's a real slow mover) and just give those pants a good yank and down they'd come. One good yank, that's all it would take. Probably not even a good yank; maybe even just a fucking strong tug would do it. So far no takers. Did I say that he's somewhere between 55 and death in age that he's sports a rockin' comb-over and wears Mr. Magoo glasses? I'm totally not making any of this up, not one iota of it. I work for the Federal government; unemployable wierdos of all types are our specialty. And frankly, they don't come much wierder than The Weeble.
He's married, recently in fact and I get to hear all about THAT TOO. Oh joy, I think as The Weeble finally wobbles out of the office inches from my chair, now I get to spend the afternoon alternating between mental pictures of Weeble and his Wife trying to find his surely tiny dick underneath all that belly (maybe after awhile with no light or air they just fall off?) and my own sick imaginings of how exactly that freak of nature wipes his ass. I mean, for sure he can't possibly reach it around that 75 inch hot air balloon encircling his waist. Unless, wait a minute, maybe, in addition to the anti-gravity belt The Weeble's found a way, like Marvel Comic's Mr. Fantastic, to stretch his arms waaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy around to the back and take care of business. The Weeble is a mystery, for sure, and as soon as I get a taker, those pants are coming off!
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