Elevator farts.

Working in a 19283719283718927391 story building with an equally as large parking structure has lend me to observe the most annoying things about working in a crowded environment and therefore justifies why I could never live in a big city without going completely crazy and killing everyone. That excludes Madrid. There's something about having an insatiable need for tapas and knowing Madrid is filled with them that makes Madrid OK in my book.

First and foremost, women are crazy about the restroom. I wrote a blog a while ago about how women love to use the end stall furthest from the door which is usually the handicap stall. Something about a big stall with an even bigger toilet is soothing, both for your ass and for your mind. So over the years I've learned the etiquette of the using the end stall.

Rule number 1.

Only use the end stall if you have to take a MAJOR shit that might take a long time. That way, it will save you the embarrassment of someone walking by your stall and peeping through the crack or seeing your feet and knowing who you are, to only later discuss why you were in the stall for so long.

Rule number 2.

When using the end stall, keep in mind that every other cunt that walks through the bathroom door will want to use it too. To save yourself from possibly getting the door ripped off by a women shitting her pants, the moment you hear the door open fake loud sniffling or coughing so that she goes to the further stall away from you because you may have SARS.

Rule number 3.

If you are selfishly using the bathroom to piss and some bitch comes in pinching a loaf, prepare to stay in the bathroom until she is gone. I have personally seen other women get into verbal brawls over that toilet. Grunt and growl, pretend you haven't eaten an ounce of fibre in a year. This way you can safely exit the bathroom without potentially getting eaten alive.

My second observation is that women with those mother fucking rolly briefcases like to congregate in large numbers in front of stairs, elevators, doorways or any place you need to walk through quickly but you are stopped like in a bad traffic jam because said rolly briefcases women are unable to figure out how to push and/or pull open doors or lift the suitcases up about a quarter of an inch so the wheels don't get caught between cracks. Sometimes I dream about running them over with my truck and seeing little wheels and body parts all over the place.

Third, when you are in a hurry is when you will hit all ALL POSSIBLE TRAFFIC IN ELEVATORS. It's funny how when I'm just crusing around the buildings, taking my sweet time to and from my office or whatever is when I never, ever hit traffic in the elevators. Somehow in the mornings when I'm running late because I lost my keys (I tend to do this a lot, I'm not sure how I'm so brilliant at doing this) is when I hit EVERY SINGLE FLOOR going down the elevator from the parking structure and then hit EVERY SINGLE FLOOR going up and somehow I always end up in the elevator with some older fat woman who insists on wearing caca as perfume and then I feel it in my throat for the rest of the day. Not only that, but said fat older woman usually weighs like 12973198273912373981273981273192873918273 pounds and usually exceeds the weight limit of the elevator and of course I'm always paranoid of the elevator wires just snapping in half and then I plummet to my death, but of course the fat lady survives because I acted as her cushion in the fall. One time some lady that looked like th Kool-Aid man but only with red curly hair got in the elevator and she was so heavy and occupying so much room in the elevator that I felt clastrophobic and paranoid of my own demise that I got off on the next floor and waited for the next elevator up to my office. I would have walked up the stairs but I was only on the 3rd floor and I was in NO MOOD to walk up to the 7th floor so I guess my laziness got the best of me. Sometimes I fart out of nervousness and blame it on the Hindu guy that works at AIG. Usually they don't speak the best of English nor do the understand that I'm blaming them for farting so thus far, I've gotten away with it. One of these days I'll blame it on the Hindu guy that speaks better English than I do and then I'll shit myself. I can only hope my elevator has a video camera and it makes it on youtube.

Maybe I'm just a sour bitch because I hate working. The irony in that is that I love my job and I'm happy when I'm there. I guess it's because I'm sitting behind a desk and not cooking or bitching is why I hate working. I guess that would be correct. Whatever way you look at it, it will not take away my vivid dreams of running over the wheelie ladies and then shitting on them.