I've recently taken to referring to the
Sea Cow (aka fatty, aka whore, aka office kiss-ass) as "the Yeti", because she's been wearing those awful faux-Ugg boots to work. I can understand if you wear them through the snow to actually
get to work, but to continue wearing them for eight hours in the company of other people, and when paired with an ankle-length camel color suede skirt, you deserve to be killed in a most heinous way.
After my morning green tea with calcium fortified OJ chaser, I usually have to tinkle like it's my job. So I scurry toward the ladies' room awaiting the momentary bliss that is peeing. Lo and behold,
the Yeti is bent over in front of the vanity area fixing her tights (did I mention they're white? AND tights?). I hurry into a stall without making eye contact with her, despite the fact that even if I did, I wouldn't speak to her.
In addition to her sartorial blasphemy, I realize for the first time since entering the room, that
the Yeti has participated in yet
another blunder. Public pooing! I know men do it. Whenever and wherever; they don't seem to care. I have never been able to let a big brown one plop in public, despite my feces smelling like delicate mountain-fresh flowers, and so I rationalize that any women who does let loose in the bathroom, unless she is ill or has a serious IBS problem, is a disgusting bag of whore.
Case in point, if I could bottle Eau de Yeti and submit it to scientists for testing, they would confirm that it is, in fact, the worst odor on the face of the planet Earth, and I would be given vast sums of money just for being subjected to it.
