You don't want to know what else showed up when I searched
"guy farting in cubicle."
After 5 minutes of murmuring obscenities to myself, the pleasant ding of the elevator chimed and the metallic doors creaked open. I motioned toward the elevator as the door quickly closed and jabbed my hipbone as it always so jokingly does. After wrestling the probing doors off my shattered body, I pressed the button labeled ‘G’ which stands for… “G’all the way down.”
The rickety grinding sound of the rusted gears was reassuring seeing as I was 30 stories above the very hard ground. Down the elevator went, until I heard another ding at floor 27. The doors slid open and two big-haired, bulbous women boarded. The elevator sunk a few inches and a few snapping noises emanated from the shaft.
Kind of like this, but substitute the 40-year-old with me.
The big-haired, bulbous women were talking; though, it was a conversation so mind-numbingly uninteresting that my brain almost killed itself. I had a strange sensation that something horrendous was about to occur. It wasn’t the fear of the elevator collapsing and plummeting 27 floors, ending all our lives; no, it was something far more sinister. And, as soon as the thought crossed my mind, the women took action. Both of them simultaneously reached for the rows of buttons and pressed their processed cheese-stained fingers upon the button marked ‘26’. They were actually getting on the elevator… to go down one floor.
Knowing that floors 23-27 have their own staircase conveniently running down the middle of everyone of their five floors, my mind immediately took control of my reflexes. My right arm cocked back and unleashed a fiery Falcon Punch to the soft cushiony back of the woman before me, flinging her through the closing doors and crashing through the wall of the foyer. The second woman, looking back, didn’t have time to react as I dropkicked her through the doors to join her friend embedded in the drywall. Before the doors completely shut, I threw a hot plate of macaroni all over them.
I shook off the hallucinogenic trip and snapped back to reality where the two women still stood before me, smelling of sardines and Cheetos.
I looked them up and down. They didn’t seem to have any noticeable medical conditions. I mean, if they didn’t have either of their legs I could understand them taking the elevator down one floor. Oh, wait. According to this article, that is no longer a viable excuse.
So, what could it be that prompted these women to take the elevator one floor rather than traversing the paltry 10 steps?
“Lucy, Bahaha, we’re so lazy aren’t we?” The woman’s nasally voice broke my concentration. Lazy aren’t we… Wait, surely she couldn’t mean—
“So true, Bridget-Anne! Look at us take the elevator down on floor. No wonder we’re so out of shape, Clahahblah!”
So, there was absolutely nothing wrong with them? They were just lazy? Better yet, they recognized the downfall of their physical condition, but still chose to perform the action most detrimental to their health.
Upon realizing the details of their lethargic decision, it was impossible to hold it back. I dragged my hands over my face and began to weep.
The women stopped their conversation and looked at me hesitantly, Ding! The doors slid open and the women shrugged as they left the elevator. I managed to regain my composure and straightened out my noose and dress shirt.
At least I survived the traumatic experience. I didn’t know if I would be able to go through that situation again, but I can’t say I wasn’t relieved it was over. Ding! The elevator stopped on floor 25. The doors opened to a group of young, spiky haired businessmen.