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."