Eskimo farts

Not much has happened this week.  I've got nothing, NOTHING, to write a good story about. I've deliberately stayed away from the big news story of the week because a) I don't know much about politics and b) I still cannot quite believe that an absolute fucking BELLSNIFF like Donald Trump is going to be the most powerful man in the world.  What sort of ASSHOLE wastes a Shredded Wheat by sticking it on his head?  I mean, really, I realise that he probably wouldn't want to grab me by the pussy as I'm clearly not his type, but to be honest, I'd rather go to Aquafit with Michael Barrymore than let that orange-faced rectal wart anywhere near my Oval Orifice.  Anyway, due to lack of fucktardery from the Great British Public this week, I'm just going to have a quick general little moan.  Freestyle.  Recognise.

My work office temperature is apparently regulated by some eco-friendly climate control bullshit.  Now, this is all very well, but the robot-gubbins that controls it has obviously been programmed to control the temperature in the office as if the whole workforce were FUCKING ESKIMOS. (When I say FUCKING ESKIMOS, I don't mean the whole workforce are actually FUCKING ESKIMOS as in doing the Eskimo With Two Backs, I just mean they are eskimos.  Actually FUCKING ESKIMOS in the office would probably open you up to some sort of disciplinary procedure).  What sort of climate-control thinks it's ok to make you grow icicles in your fucking MOUSTACHE? 

Apparently, the smell of farts prevents dementia.  That's obviously fucking bollocks.  Because if it were true, why am I going mad?  Walking into my bedroom in the morning is literally like walking into a wall of POO.  I was asleep once, and my old man dropped a chuffbox-tune SO RANCID that the smell of it ACTUALLY WOKE ME UP.  You know you hear these stories of people being in a house fire, and the only reason they woke up and saved themselves is because they smelt the smoke in their sleep, well that's me that is.  I woke up with a start and genuinely thought someone had launched a chemical attack on our house.  It made me feel so sick I had to eat some Rennie's.  But that wasn't a one off.  There is something fucking wrong with him.  And now this bollocks about dementia has given him a good reason to keep floating air biscuits every five minutes.  He just says 'think about your future love, and breathe deep'.

So with the amount of bum-gas I've breathed in the last few years, you'd think I'd be way off getting dementia if the scientists are to be believed.  But alas, I think I am succumbing.  On Tuesday, I completely lost track of how much ibuprofen and paracetamol I'd necked for a massive headache.  By the time the old man got home, I was OFF MY TITS.  We then proceeded to have a heated discussion about a cunt that's also a dick and an asshole (long story for another day), but I could not get my words out properly, my face was numb and I was talking like Jamie Fucking Oliver. So the old man WON the heated discussion dammit! 

Also today I forgot how to drive and found myself going from 1st to 5th gear while simultaneously trying to put the car radio on and do some dance move that the kid taught me yesterday.  And then this morning I forgot my purse so had to beg a sandwich off my mate at lunchtime. So don't try and tell me that farting is good for me!  It's melting my mind!