Tumid

Pompous, bombastic (adj.)

Thomas Middick opened an envelope from his faculty mail box and read its contents and groaned.
"Five classes!"
He scratched a stray itch roaming somewhere over the surface of the goiter that'd been growing on his cheek since he'd finished his dissertation two years earlier. He scratched at the base of the growth and muttered to himself.
"This is absurd."
Middick looked toward the door of the chair of the philosophy department and waddled his rotund self to it and hit it with his fist several times. He turned the knob and opened the door before the old professor inside could say "come in."
"Roland, I've been assigned five introductory classes next semester."
"I know," Roland said.
Middick's shoulders fell and his disfigured head tilted to the side.
"I can't teach five classes in one semester, Roland, I have research to do. I can't be bothered by..."
"Bothered?"Middick, your contract says you will teach nine classes this year, a majority of them introductory."
"I have my PhD from Harvard, I studied under Smith. I don't have the time or attention or patience to deal with undergraduates."
He was breathing heavily as he said this, which caused the striped sweater he was wearing to rise up and expose the fat above his crotch. Hairs from his belly creeped out from the space between his belt and the bottom of the sweater.
"Middick, let me tell you something. You don't impress me. That's why I gave you that schedule."
Middick's mouth twitched and he blinked and suddenly felt the hem of his sweater chafing against his exposed stomach. His hands fluttered to his midsection and grasped the bottom of the sweater and pulled it over his fat and began to cry.