When Shit Hits The Fan, It Kinda Smells

I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients. I hate stupid clients.

Especially when they are flatulent. Holy Mother Fucking Pinocchio Schnozzle, today my pristine face nearly turned into this motherfucker's:

 

Between the clients' verbal diarrhea and their physical anal cabal, my non-religious arse had to ask Jesus to resuscitate as a can of Febreze and spread the Holy Gospel in a perimeter of 3 kilometers.

The worse is that as a professional con artist consultant I am legally obliged to keep a Terminator face, when in reality all I want to do is burst into a rendition of 'I want to break free' by Queen, complete with a vaccuum cleaner that I would stuck onto the smelly offender's obscene orifice, before legging it to the nearest pub.

Note to self : get the office administrator to include a gas mask to her next office stationery Amazon order for my next client visits.

 

Oink Oink.