Wednesday, January 23, 2019

Have I Introduced Her Yet? The Fartiste.

Seems a bit late in the game to introduce her, as I hope to be out of here by June, and if not, she'll be retiring in December. So the over/under, +/- is 6-12 months things are going to change here.

Anyway. Since 2014, our office relocated to a high rise, and to use trailer park parlance, I have gone from a cubicle akin to a double-wide down to a single. Further unpleasantness added, and despite my attempts to relocate my workstation elsewhere within the confines of the office suite, with exception of the flimsy fabric partition separating us, we are sitting approximately 18-24 inches apart.

We are seated so close to one another, I can hear her digest her food. I also can hear her mutter under her breath (but really loud enough so I can hear it) blurt out "JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!" when I am conversing with anyone else (it could be about something innocuous like a Thanksgiving menu). "JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

She sits in her cubicle (a double-wide, mind you) farting her ass off, saying "excuse me!" to no one in particular; however, when she walks past my cubicle, she farts with abandon--and get this--NO EXCUSE ME. 

I don't take issue with the farts; I do, however, take issue with the lack of courtesy given the lack of an "excuse me," when I know she is capable of saying it--she's just incapable or unwilling to say it as she strafes my perimeter with her noxious emanations.

For the first few years here in the new digs, I'd casually mention the farting to the younger secretary--who, I could tell by her facial expression, that she doubted what I said was the truth--until one day, off in the distance, she, too, heard the familiar clarion call of the Butt Trumpet. 

As evidenced by a previous blog post (a bit deeper into the posting history herein), I keep a can of Febreze at the ready on my desk for such occasions.

It has now gotten to the point where I could be starting my day hosing down the immediate surrounding area of my cubicle because of her willful flatulence. 

She fails to say "Excuse me" when she crop dusts my cubicle; however, if I sneeze, she's quick to dispense a "God bless you." Fuck her, and fuck those God bless yous. Her God bless yous remain unacknowledged on my end, and I hope my silence is received as precisely that: A silent FUCK YOU--much like her farts that go without an "excuse me" are a not-so-silent FUCK YOU.

There are other bits of hostility going on too, and in October, things hit my personal tipping point where she caused trouble for me to the extreme point where I didn't know if I'd get fired (or worse). 

I've known all along she's noxious--but now things have reached a toxic level. 

So in the meantime, I have gotten myself into CBT, I read The Art of War (as well as The 48 Laws of Power) daily, and I have The Fartiste on a very tight diet (wherein she gets precisely ONE sentence from me per day--less if I can manage it). And I am plotting my escape.  

Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I have a chapter of The Art of War to read.


  1. If it didn't result in self-harm, it is too bad you couldn't funkify her surroundings with something... a slow burner as it were.

  2. I have trust issues with my ass, otherwise I’d fart out of spite, but with my luck, I’d shit myself.


What sayeth thou? (Mean people suck, don't fuck it up.)

"I hate people."
"People" stop being "people" when they become friends.
Friends stop being friends when they become assholes.
So to refine my hatred, I hate people and I hate assholes.