Trashy Is As Trashy Does
Everyone I work with is a slob, and I mean that with the upmost disgusted affection. I think they know it too, since my incensed looks rarely go unnoticed, and secretly revel in the fact that it irks me to no end. Once I stopped taking care of the garbage, oh, three weeks ago, no one else has bothered to lay a finger on it. That's okay, though. What's a little germ and disease and pest control when you can just ignore it? And yes, I mean the smells too.
My boss' garbage (courtesy of his awesome digital camera):
Ah, yeah. Work it, garbage. SexXx it up, baby.
Overflow just like that. You're looking hottt.
And if I ever get hungry, there's a treat waiting for me.
If memory serves me correct, it'll be here for a while.
There's the money shot.
(And for a cool effect, you can't see where the bag ends and the garbage begins.)
A little up close and personal. Ooh, you so dirrrty.
(And no one has claimed that errant slipper yet, so it's up for grabs.)
A treat I unexpectedly found in the kitchen:
I actually wept for this poor orange. And it smells as bad as it looks.
If you follow the clues closely, you can tell who the biggest garbage bandit is (hint: everyone he goes, he leaves a trail of orange peel behind). I guess I should consider myself lucky that this food-related addiction isn't something worse, like hard boiled eggs or blue cheese.
I didn't take any pictures of the lovely clogged toilet that greeted me this morning because I realize that everyone has their limits, and I haven't had dinner yet. But trust me, it was magical.