The Kitchen Incident

Great globs of fetid milk fall repulsively into the rinser, the foul stench filling my nostrils.
"Mother of fuck." I mutter to myself.
I turn the tap on full power to quickly eradicate the nauseating cheese-like substance, the smell lingering like nuclear fallout. I fart to compensate, then open a window or three (and the back door) to compensate for the now overbearing smell of the gases fresh from my colon.

My house smells terrible. My bedroom smells of smegma because of that 'milk', the kitchen smells of the excretions of every orifice of Beelzebub, and the clash in the middle somewhere on the stairs, is coma-inducing. If any of that potentially fatal aroma escapes into the outside world it would be classed as an act of chemical warfare; I'd be charged as a terrorist and incarcerated and tortured in Guantanamo.

And I wonder why I can't pull...