On Issues of Lunch Bloat

Doug tugged with his thumb at his front-right belt loop in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on his waist line.
“God, I wish I could just take off my pants,” he said under his breath.
No reply from God.
A moment later thunder rang out, clouds rolled viciously across the sky, and a short but pronounced shower of frogs and lizards bounced across the office window.
“Stop going to Chipotle for lunch, Douglas!” the almighty decree resonated through all matter, breaking some of the weaker bonds and causing stacks of paperwork to shuffle off of desktops throughout the office.
“Fucking Doug,” Jamison exclaimed, “stop talking to fucking God at work, you fat bastard.”
“Sorry,” Doug said sheepishly. His fleshy cheeks reddened as he kept his eyes on the paper in front of him. Dough tried to subtly undo the button on his trousers. “Sorry.”

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