Well, if you were here when I showed up at the office this morning, you heard about my harrowing tale of riding the bus and getting sat in front of somebody that, among everything else, I caught the worst smell that I could possibly imagine that grossed me out worse than a fart, worse than body odor.

This man's hot breath was just rolling up into my nostrils every 90 seconds, and it was one of the most unpleasant experiences,

and so I'm going to let out a little bit of rage here.

The men's from top ten.

It was disgusting.

The top ten.

The top ten offensive odors.

Smell it.

Imagine, if you will, a Pyrex dish filled with a delicious salad, romaine, kale, carrot,

cabbage shavings, and the icing on the cake, a honey glazed chunk of grilled salmon.

Now imagine forgetting it.

It was in the mini fridge of my studio for months.

When I pulled that container of what appears to be... in the mini-fridge of my studio for months.

When I pulled that container of what appears to be belched out of the bowels of hell out,

what do you do?

You wait till a Friday, check your surroundings,

then launch that morphed puck of what was once considered food,

into the compost bin, and walk away slowly.

Death lingered in the air for hours that day, my friends.

Positive Friday.

That is a true story.

Yeah, but he's the only one that comes in on Saturday, so he's still going to smell it.

...