Who's the boss?

I had some interesting boss’ in Dobuy; colonial twat who was renowned for poncing around in his white linen suits, unsocked Gucci loafers and conveniently left the keys to his Ferrari on the desk of every client he visited.

Then there was the Bollywood Barry White, the monkey fiddler who “dated” prostitutes. He had this “vision that we all work in harmony” with excessive hand gestures.

Then of course there was the adorable Wenchy Witch Bum who was rumored to spending most of her client meetings on her knees (for both men and women).

Lets not forget the Kiwi Neanderthal who didn’t pay me in the end! He had the neighbour who insisted on showing me his penis…aahhh the memories.

That brings me onto my current boss. Lovely guy, razor sharp wit and incredibly public school.

His office is immediately behind me, just take two steps from his door and you can comfortably breathe down my neck. It’s more of a cubicle than an office; in fact my bathroom is larger!

He has a rather annoying habit of closing his door followed by a marathon farting session. Minutes later he opens the door and we are treated with what can only be described as a nerve gas explosion.

At least if he left the window slightly ajar, some of the stench will escape and the gailforce fart wind will downgrade to a fart breeze. If this continues, there will come a day when he walks out of his cubicle and he will find us all face down on our desks, shaking and foaming at the mouth.

Whenever he closes his door, we mutter and nod in unison “its farty time!”