Stinky Elevator

One thing I love about my job is that I'm never stuck in one place for too long. It keeps me moving (physically) so I can rant and rave about someone in here and never actually be seen as a definite culprit. Not that I care one hoot. If I am writing about someone and he actually identifies himself, then that's good, he might change his behaviour and make us all happy. But today, today is one of those days when I really don't give a million hoots. Scenario, half eight in the morning, feeling groggy and in need of a coffee. Really didn't have the energy to go up two flights of steps so I just made it to the elevator. Big mistake. It smelt as if someone had beaten rotten eggs with sour milk in the biggest borma on planet earth. It made me retch. Thank God no preggie was in there or she'd have thrown everything on me. And for once I wouldn't have blamed her. It stank so bad. Horrible horrible stinky elevator. So perhaps someone, probably the day before had spilt some milk in. No big deal. What seems to be a big deal is that nobody even bothered to clear up the mess, so the milk had just fermented overnight. And I saw one man, who is actually responsible for clearing up such messes, seriously drag a bucket and mop. Yeah yeah elevator was about to be cleaned. Two hours later, it still smelt, worse. What the fuck? People are being paid to clear something like that once in a while and they cannot even do that? I, as undomesticated as I am, would have done a better job. Perhaps I would have made the whole thing wet, but then isn't water supposed to clean things up? And really, has disinfectant become so expensive? Just a little would have gone a long way. But then, what could I really expect out of a man who stinks himself, who always has his pants zip all the way down his crotch and never up, who thinks he is some Casanova (not) and who likes sleeping in the sun more than my cats do? I wish I could just have done it myself. The Diva behaviour flies out when it's something to do with stomachs retching. And milk gone bad, couldn't that be a big breeding space for bacteria, in a place where little people spend some six hours a day? I do not know how to clean very properly, but it doesn't take a genius to splash some water and disinfectant, swirl it around, and make everything smell clean and nice. The reason why janitors or caretakers like these keep being employed eludes me. Being employed to lap up the sun, that's a nice one. And if someone had body odour so bad at eight in the morning, then he should be forced, execution style to zip up his pants. God knows what's breeding in there. Yuk! Stinky asshole, on God no, I don't want to think about a rectum belonging to someone like that.

Kay Why?

It seems my latest blog entry has scared the shit out of womanhood. And it comes to me as a complete surprise. Ladies, ladies, weren't you the ones who complained when it came to size? Forget the size-does-not-matter. It's a myth. It happened to me once and I don't want to remember. I have put it past me and buried it in my never-to-come-back-again part of my psyche. Oh it's the quality and not the size. That is bullcrap. That comes from frustrated women who don't know any better. But I think I do. The faithful Big Boss. I have been receiving a pile of comments from ladies who fear it will rip their insides. But why? Is something which lights up your life then minute Enemalta decides to rip off power from our homes (on the pretext of upgrading the system and your bill in the process) really that scary? It's the joy which stops you from calling Enemalta to give them a piece of your mind. For heaven's sake, women have produced things as big as babies from in there. Isn't that so so scarier? And then some women don't even learn their lesson and start producing and multiplying? And that's ok? The thought would be enough to deprive me of nine months of sleep. And yet Big Boss has sent ladies screaming in terror? Truth really is stranger than fiction sometimes. So I come here to rest all these ladies' minds. Although, as a sideline, if they're so scared then does it mean they are dealing with a tiny weeny? Anyway, take a trip to your nearest pharmacy, supermarket even. And find a good damn lubricant. Pharmaceutical companies have not invented something called a Kay Why for nothing. They haven't even named it a Kay Why for nothing. Kay.... it the global name for ladies (or gay queens), Why... that's because some ladies (and queens again) cannot understand how to cope with a biggie. It doesn't cost much, and you're certain that you're in for the ride of a lifetime. Caution, can get slippery...