The Office Suck Up

Blandy McDugood was her first grade class's Milk Monitor three years in a row. To her credit, that third year she was in the second grade; but she just loved the attention and praise more than anything else, so she volunteered to go back for one more year during each day's Milk Time.

Thirty-five years later, Blandy decided to take on the 8th floor's leadership role in the upcoming Charity Run For Dick Warts, sponsored by the local Applebee's and Americans Supporting Social Revolution Against Penile Eradication (ASSRAPE). Blandy was also the 8th floor's Fire Marshal, Safety Coordinator, Party Planner, Supply Orderer, Bagel-Fridays Buyer & Bringer, Kitchenette-Counter-Wiper-Downer, CEO Bootlick, New Employee Welcoming-Committee Leader, and Resident Birthday Rememberer. Blandy was average to below-average at many things, but volunteering for all the crap nobody else wanted to do was not one of them.

Blandy received no additional salary for performing any of these extracurricular duties - most of which kept her working overtime on a daily basis; nor did she receive any additional respect or sense of camaraderie from her co-workers, though try she did with all the thoughtful balloons she'd inflate for people she thought might be having a "Downer Day." Mostly, people put up with Blandy because, without her suck-up-ery, they would revert to those pre-Blandy days where the boss pulled a name out of a hat each month and divvied the aforementioned duties randomly. However, as long as Blandy waltzed into the office every day with a bounce in her 275-pound, heavily-caffeinated step - cheery and annoying as ever - things wouldn't have to come to that.

And then September 6th came around.

Around thirty-five employees worked on the 8th floor. Around thirty-five times a year, each one of them received a gift card, a pile of helium balloons, and Birthday Bunting draped across the opening of each Birthday Boy or Girl's cubicle. But, not Blandy McDugood. Not on her birthday, which always landed on September 5th.

On the morning of September 6th, Blandy wasn't at her usual post, standing next to the vending machines deciding whether to go with the Cherry Pop Tarts for $1.25, or pop for the $.75 Wasabi Funyuns, all the while striking up mundane conversation with random co-workers - usually starting with the line, "Well, so much for my diet," and a pathetically needy and vulnerable chuckle - who were unfortunate enough to happen along in her time of unwavering need. In fact, Blandy wasn't in the office at all.

At about 1:30 in the afternoon, someone finally noticed how pleasant the day was going - what with there being no obnoxious Gilligan's Island humming or Betty Rubble-like twittering laughter heard across the floor - and wondered aloud, "Where's Blandy?"

"I don't know. She's not supposed to be off today. Has anybody heard from her?"

When no one responded - due to the fact that Blandy did not have any actual companions within the office - someone decided to call Blandy at home.

At that moment, Blandy stumbled out of a nearby storage room, having heard the whole exchange quite clearly in spite of the fact that she'd been getting steadily drunker since she'd arrived at about 5:30 that morning, before even the janitors got there.

Reeking of Malt Liquor, hair revealing what would be a blinding bald spot in another twenty years, in light brown sweat pants and a home-made monogrammed XXL t-shirt that read, "Happy Birthday To Me," holding a 24-ounce can of Old English in one hand and a switchblade in the other, Blandy caught her balance on the side of one of the cubicles before pirouetting to her left and falling into the next cubicle over, landing headfirst into a stack of litigation files that were supposed to be mailed by Blandy that morning. Unharmed, Blandy stood and composed herself as best she could, though the thunderous crash enticed nearly everyone in the office to at least gawk over the sides of their own cubicles.

Lumbering over to the center of the aisle, Blandy chugged down the last of her brew and chucked it into a pile she'd started back in the storage closet.

"Blandy, what are you doing? What's the meaning of this?"

Blandy flung the opened switchblade, sticking it point-first into the carpet at his feet; then she proceeded to flop down on the ground and pull off her sweat pants. "You see this?" she said, pointing to her genitalia, "Eat this! Go on," she said, scooting on her ass towards the accusing co-worker, "Eat it!" The sight of dark, sweaty, untamed pubic hair made everyone looking at it instantly fling their necks towards the nearest 90-degree angle. Her flab could only be described by the dozen-or-so who simultaneously gouged their eyeballs out as: "I can still see it! I can still see it!"

After kicking off the light-brown last-bastion-for-preservation-of-office-appetites, Blandy turned herself over, got on her knees, and proceeded to spread her ass-cheeks as wide as they'd go. "Eat my ass you fuckers! Eat it all up!" Now, co-workers still with the ability of sight were running for the exits. Some of the recently blinded blundered their way around the office, trying each and every door until they could find one they liked.

With the office mostly barren, Blandy took off her t-shirt, threw those litigation files all around the ground at her feet, and proceeded to make the Snow-Angel motion; her enormous breasts - and other folds of fat - flopping as she flapped her arms and legs. When she saw her creation, she let out a bellowing laugh. It quickly subsided when she saw the balloons in the office at the end of the hall.

There was a birthday three days prior. Blandy had gotten those balloons for the CEO! At the very least, he could've remembered her birthday. After all, he was the one she worked with exclusively as his assistant. However, he was out of town this week on business. When he returned, Blandy would make sure that he'd never forget her birthday ever again. She picked up her switchblade, hauled herself on top of his mini-conference table, and proceeded to slash open her stomach with long, pronounced gouges. Eventually, after the third incision, Blandy lost the strength to cut anymore. But, the damage had been done.

Police sent in a remote-controlled robot-vehicle - much like those used to diffuse bombs - to check on the status of Blandy, since there was no person willing to volunteer to enter do such contemptible, thankless work. When her disemboweled body showed up on the screen twenty minutes later, the rampant scourge of vomiting almost destroyed all of the equipment inside the Police Van.

The CEO took a direct flight back home the following day. He gave a brief announcement to his staff in their temporary office on the 14th floor. In it, he made the proclamation,

"Blandy McDugood was a dedicated employee and a true champion when it came to helping out in our office. This final grizzly episode notwithstanding, it is our duty to honor Blandy's memory not only for the hard work she performed, but also as a reminder that we must not forget. We must not forget the little people. We must not forget the very large people. We must not forget birthdays. And so, from this day forward, each and every September 6th shall forever be known as Blandy McDugood Day, in honor of the day of her birth, so tragically and ironically also falling on the day of her death. Blandy McDugood, rest in peace."