u/GolfingForLibertyCap

Im the one who left the bottle of body wash on his desk.

Despite being a low blow, I did try everything else first.

Talked to him respectfully, My words bounced off.

The respect that he has for others is equal to the respect he has for his ass hairs that haven't touched anything resembling soap since the 90's.

I'd say he used me like an ass wipe, but an ass wipe is something he most definitely wouldn't use.

"What if I were to take a shower, and wipe my arse as well?"

"What could possibly happen if I did both of these things in a 24 hour period? God knows!!"

Yes God knows, Cause God probably has fucking nostrils.

I'm convinced I've found the cure to heroine addiction, or any addiction really.

One whiff of Billy the Ballsack over here and you'll be higher than fucking Jupiter, heroine would make you sober, if anything.

If anyone jumped back in disgust, involuntarily gagged, shit and then spit at the screen all simultaneously when you saw the word "Billy", I don't blame you.

Even the name is like a curse, muttering "billy" generates a smell so abbysmal it travels through space and time to reach you.

It never travels through a goddamn shower though, it seems.

If this guy went to a boxing match it'd be considered rigged.

All he'd need to do is throw his underwear that have stains old enough to insure them as a vintage fucking car, towards the undeserving and soon to be under the influence of a new species of human made bath salts.

They'd be doing laps around the ring like an olympic runner on adderall, in the opposite direction.

It's like if you went to the zoo, only to find out that all the interesting animals were asleep.

The only one animal awake is the noxious biohazard of a senile skunk, that's residing in the corner of the wild boar enclosures shit sty.

"What cologne should I use today?"

"Vanilla?"

"Battery acid on a septic wound, compressed into a bottle?"

Well send Jesus to earth on a tandem bicycle and call me Elton John,

Because he most fucking definitely didn't go with vanilla.

Imagine it's 2am and your bedroom is dark, finally drifting off to sleep after a long day.

Then, suddenly, you notice a faint humming sound.

You don't know where it's coming from, and you don't care.

All you want to do right now is sleep. So you try to ignore the sound, hoping it's just your brain messing with you.

The more you try and avoid it, the louder it becomes.

Your ears focus more closely by the second by second, it's getting louder and louder.

Until finally, you can't handle it anymore.

You jump out of bed, stomping towards your light switch.

Only in this case, it's not a sound, nor a bump.

It's the impossible to ignore, radiating, explosions of grotesque fecal matter, desperately attempting to escape his larger than life armpits.

At least larger than my life, which won't be very large of a life, after whatever new chemical he's brewing down there enters my poor nostrils.

If the devil ate 10 pounds of cheese, while also being lactose intolerant and on a 3 week constipation streak, the raging diarrhea flying at the speed of light directly up toward earth would likely smell better.

One thing I'll compliment is his ability to survive if a zombie outbreak were to happen.

The zombies would get one tiny particle of the scent surrounding his weapon of a body and they'd run like a group of ibex when they see a vertical wall with a sprinkle of salt 500 feet in the distance.

Last week, when I was still privileged with the gift of scent, there was a draft coming into the window by your desk.

Now usually a draft wouldn't be a big concern to me, it might get a little cold, but I have a jacket.

But this isn't usually, this is Billy.

The draft carried his scent towards me like a bullet extracted from a public toilet. The air was struggling to move such a potent and deadly force.

In what can only be described as a failed assassination attempt, the smell knocked my nostrils back into my arse.

It was so bad it'd make michael jackson jump right the fuck back out of his grave to write the word bad in my sentence.

So I confess maybe my opinion of you isn't the highest, but it's all behind is now that I've got it out.

And I confess that yes, I left a bottle of body wash on your desk.

And also yes, I did it four days in a row.

But I felt bad at 4 so I didn't do 5.

"But what if I were to take a shower, and wipe my arse at the one time? "

"What could possibly happen if I did both of these things in a 24 hour period? God knows!!"

Yes God knows, Cause God has fucking nostrils.

I'm convinced he's the cure to heroine addiction.

One whiff of Billy the Ballsack over here and you'll be higher than fucking Jupiter, heroine would make you sober if anything.

If you jumped back in disgust and involuntarily gagged, shit and spit at the screen all simultaneously when you saw the word "Billy", I don't blame you.

Even his name is like a curse, the smell travels through space and time.

Never travels through a goddamn shower though, it seems.

If this guy went to a boxing match it'd be considered rigged.

All he'd need to do is throw his underwear with stains so old they could probably be insured as a vintage fucking car, in the direction of the opponent.

They'd be doing laps around the ring like an olympic runner on adderall, in the opposite direction.

It's like going to the zoo and finding out that all the animals are asleep, apart from the noxious biohazard of a senile skunk residing in the corner of the wild boars shit sty.

What cologne should I use today?

Vanilla?

Or

Battery acid applied to a septic wound, compressed into a bottle?

Well send the Lord Jesus to earth on a tandem bicycle and call me elton John, He most fucking definitely didn't go with Vanilla.

Imagine it's 2am, you're bedroom is dark, you're drifting off to sleep.

Then suddenly, you notice a faint humming sound, and you don't know where it's coming from.

You try to ignore the sound, but your ears focus more closely the more you try and avoid it.

You really don't want to turn the light on, you just want to sleep.

The sound gets more irritating by the second.

Until finally, you can't take it anymore.

You rush to your bedroom light switch and go jumping around the room, you're looking for this sound like a drug addict looking for one more bump.

Only, it's not a sound, nor a bump, in my case.

It's the radiating explosions of grotesque fecal matter escaping his larger than life armpits, or at least larger than my life, considering my life won't be very long after whatever new chemical he's brewing enters my nostrils.

if the devil ate 10 pounds of cheese, while being lactose intolerant and on a 3 week constipation streak, the raging diarrhea flying at the speed of light directly down onto earth, would likely smell better than you.

But hear me out, what if I was obnoxious AND used Satan's pubes / in a pill as a breath freshener?

If this was the walking dead, the zombies would probably fucking run from instead.

The last remaining 6 braincells floating around in my arse of a brain are evaporating into thin air, day by day.

All this being said, it's not a big deal to me.

Likely because the 6 brain cells you left me with isn't enough to form anything resembling a thought anymore,

And because my nostrils spontaneously combust like Jesus rising from earth, nowhere to be seen.

When I die my only hope is to be reunited with the nostrils you robbed from me.

Last week, there was a draft coming into the window.

Now usually, a draft wouldn't be a big concern to me, it might get a little cold but I have a jacket.

But this isn't usually, this is Billy.

The waft carried his scent barelling directly towards me in what can only be described as a failed assassination attempt.

Unless the attempt was against my ability to smell, because in that case you can remove attempt.

Just had to vent.

No big deal though really.