Keith is a walking sexual harassment complaint. A triple smoked ham of a man that has been counting down the days until he can get utterly Buswell’d at the Christmas party

Today is the office party and can you sniff that? It’s the chair of opportunity, and Keith will surely wait until a figure huggin’ honey sits on it.

The office closes at 1:00pm and Keith swaps his suit jacket for a leather jacket that has been fashioned from the hide of a mid-life crisis. One wet comb through his deforested scalp and he completes the look, “5 cougars thanks-chic”.

Upon arrival, Keith fist-fucks his goatee-hole full of canapes. Like a ménage à trois of poor table manners he crams, half-chews and duck swallows. Those cornered by his conversation are treated to not only shit banter, but a little prize, right from his mouth to their face.

Within the first 45 minutes, Keith has slurped down his first bottle of wine. He approaches a girl young enough to be his daughter and lets the cat out of the cradle, “strewth, you brought the twins!” His leering gaze upon her exposed bust remains unbroken as she nervously giggles.

Next stop on the pest express is his 45 year old secretary. She is currently talking to the hottest guy in the office – hot Ricky. Her cougar instincts have set in as she purrs at each joke Ricky makes. Not on Keith’s watch.

Keith bowls on over and death grips hot Ricky’s hand with the intensity of a convict having a wank during his electric chair execution. “I wouldn’t be so cheery if my sales figures were down 1.32% ay, Rick?”

Funnily enough, Keith didn’t land the deathblow to Ricky’s game like it had played out in his head. He adjusts his gut and waddles off to moister pastures.

Fuck it, he reckons as he drinks until his teeth are stained like an Orc. He begins to stagger through the dance floor like a semi sedated water buffalo in search of cocktail franks.

It’s now 10 pm and Keith is mumbling incoherencies as he tries to speak his mind to a couple of more successful executives. “Maybe you should hit the waters, mate”.

Instead of taking it easy and drinking some water, Keith decides to tell Malcolm that it was he who took a shit in his office after the last Chrissy party, “a bonus shit for a shit bonus”. Malcolm’s hate and disgust transcends the visceral and explodes in true X-Mas party form.

Malcolm tries to choke Keith but his neck is like greased ham. Keith lands a sack tap that would keep a Trinity principal up at night. Malcolm hits the deck. Grimacing in pain. Keith is feeling so alpha right now that he turns to the weird IT chick and shoots his shot from half-court, “me wife will be home, but we can use me daughter’s room if you’re keen?”

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?

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