Could you send somebody in here to take a look at--or, rather a smell of--whatever awful beacon of the apocalypse that's currently nesting in our workplace.
I don't know what it is. I have no way of locating it, either. (In fact, I'm beginning to think it was sent here by VISA, because it's literally everywhere I want to be.) But if it helps, I can provide an exact description of this nasal atrocity: It's the smell of old french fries stuffed inside someone's butt. So have your people start with that.
Until we get this taken care of I'm going to refrain from going anywhere near my work, or anything else that might cause me to endure another second of what I will henceforth refer to as "The Devastation." The smells ruminating in that room aren't just intrusive, they're mind-altering. The other day I hallucinated I was a squid trying to escape from an old ham sandwich. It took me fifteen minutes to realize the ham sandwich was a metaphor for the room that contained The Devastation. But I am that goddamned squid.
In an effort to bring a little less death into my nostrils, I've been popping peppermints and lozenges like a chain smoker who's also addicted to swirling burnt hair around in their mouth. (Because those people's mouths smell bad. That's why I used that metaphor. Not because--I don't do weird things with burnt hair. Don't put that in my file.) But the effects are short-term and merely coat the smell. So now there's also a hint of peppermint farts in the air. You're welcome.
There must be a department responsible for keeping this place from smelling like old french fries stuffed inside someone's butt. There just has to be. Contact that department immediately.
I also feel like I shouldn't need to issue such frequent complaints about the smells happening in and around my work environment. Come on. This is a place of business. And not a business that specializes in devastating people's olfactory receptors.