I had long forgotten the evil that are office chairs. Not the discomfort or how fiddly they can be when they need to be adjusted. That sort of thing has never bothered me all that much. No – I’m referring to the rancid stench of bottoms that is buried thickly within the cushion of eve office chair. And which is released either as a slow-acting monster once a new employee sits on a once-dormant chair. Or worse – is guffed up into the air like a rancid, cloud each and every time someone plonks themselves down. Rr even simply rolls their arse cheeks around enough. It’s an appalling odor. It doesn’t even really smell like any individual bottom that I’ve ever come across (so to speak).
And that’s precisely the point. It isn’t any one singular bottom. Instead it’s the accumulated, rubbed, sweaty, buttocks of potentially hundreds of people. Most of whom haven’t intended to leave behind a beige-stamp of shame. Of course some have endured all kinds of leakings, problematic anuses and unspeakable, brown-nightmares that require medical treatment. But even those who haven’t suffered something that requires a nightly check from a concerned loved one/arse-welfare hostage have still secretly shoved small chuffings of wind into the seat. Driving them with focus to muffle the sound. Add that the very nature of recycled air in an office leads even the most sanitary person sat all day long in work pants to emanate something into the cushion. Each swivel chair has likely been penetrated in this putrid manner by tens if not hundreds of people. All dropping whatever smell behind ready to be poofed back into the air like one of those flowers that coughs its’ seeds into the air in the hope it will germinate somewhere else. In short the office chair is basically an Arse Cocktail.
Thankfully despite being out of work for three years I still had together my Office Emergency Kit. Which basically is a bag of items that every prepared employee needs in order to avoid earning the worst possible work nicknames. So aside from the obvious saviors that are a toothbrush and deodorant, (oh the misery of the day when you forget to put that on) it also contains a small, bottle of Febreze On The Go. Which in my case was duly sprayed (with wanton abandon and a public announcement that my seat smells like a thousand American arses) on my office chair to chase the sphincter-demons out. Of course I was careful not to overdo it. Don’t want to be stood up ten minutes later with a wet patch squished into the seat of my trousers making it look like I’ve just shit myself. We don’t do that sort of thing around here. This isn’t Yorkshire.
Staying on the topic of arses I have happened across another person with the unfortunate surname of Anil. I am entorely new to this name. I have been told it isn't pronounced how I think it is - but that isn't funny so have decided to ignore it entirely. In this paticular person’s case their surname was Poforma. Which is splendidly close to them having the name Anil Proforma. Which would basically would mean their name is, Anal As-A-Matter-Of-Politeness. Which I’d like to think is the case for any self-respecting woman. But I understand we all have comfort zones (or discomfort-zones, if that applies here).