Picture this: Fred, a schlubby office drone with the sex appeal of a wet bagel, decides to go on a diet. Why? Because his coworkers keep mistaking his love handles for emergency flotation devices.
One day, Fred’s boss, Schnabel, calls him up at midnight. “We need to discuss… things,” Schnabel says, his voice dripping with more innuendo than a porn star’s Twitter feed.
Fred, paranoid as a squirrel on crack, insists they meet immediately. “Let’s break into a restaurant!” he suggests, sounding about as sane as a guy wearing tinfoil underpants.
At the office, Fred’s life is a comedy of errors. His coworkers treat him like he’s invisible – except when using him as target practice for their fruit-throwing skills. Talk about getting your five a day!
Fred’s desk is in the office’s “Sahara Desert” zone – no fresh air, just the stale musk of his colleagues’ arousal. And don’t even get him started on his missing chair. He’s been standing so long his ass cheeks have clenched tighter than a nun’s knees at a cucumber farm.
One day, Fred finally scores a meeting with the Minister. The guy’s about as approachable as a porcupine in a balloon factory. Fred walks in, ready to plead his case, only to find the Minister practicing the Charleston. It’s like walking in on your grandpa doing the Macarena in his tighty-whities.
Fast-forward to lunch with Schnabel. Fred is proudly munching on rabbit food while Schnabel is going to town on a chocolate éclair like it’s his last meal. Schnabel, the sly dog, offers Fred a bite. “C’mon,” he purrs, “one little taste won’t hurt.”
Fred’s resolve crumbles faster than a sandcastle in a tsunami. He orders an éclair, his hands shaking like he’s diffusing a bomb made of calories.
As he bites into that creamy, chocolatey goodness, time slows down. The éclair oozes its sweet filling, coating Fred’s tongue. He moans, eyes rolling back in his head like he’s having the orgasm of his life. “Ohhh, fuuuuck,” he groans, “it’s so goooood!”
Schnabel watches a smirk on his face. “Nice, isn’t it?” he says, voice husky. “It’ll go straight to your hips, you naughty boy.”
Fred’s breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead. He’s so turned on by this forbidden pastry that he’s worried he might cream his pants right there in the restaurant.
Suddenly, guilt crashes over him like a tidal wave of shame. “Oh God,” he cries, “what have I done? I’ve been a bad, bad boy!”
He runs home and throws himself at his father’s feet. “Daddy,” he wails, “I’ve been so naughty! I ate the éclair! Punish me, please!”
His father, cool as a cucumber, says, “I sentence you to death… by snoo-snoo!”
And just like that, Fred realizes his true calling isn’t dieting – it’s being the office slut. From that day on, he embraces his curves, using them to seduce everyone from the mailroom boy to the CEO.
The moral of the story? Sometimes, you gotta break your diet to discover your true appetite. And in Fred’s case, that appetite was for hot, steamy office orgies. Who knew an éclair could lead to so much éclaire-ity?
