Fish Poop in Elevators

Thor: Another word for "fish poop" is "bass turd". I work on the 13th floor, yet it's tempting to sprint up the stairs rather than deal with a typical morning's elevator experience. I arrive. All the elevators are on the 17th floor and each one stops at every floor on the way down. They all go to the basement. One elevator beats the others to the ground floor on the way up. So the other elevators feel no need to stop but go racing back up to the 17th floor. There are, of course, 4 carloads of people waiting to get onto the one car that stopped. People jostle for position, but to no avail. Why? Because the last two people off the elevator got just outside the door and then had to have a discussion about whether to go left or right. No one could get past the oblivious fish poops, and so the doors closed and the car went, empty, to join his friends on the 17th floor. This is the main reason we have the death penaly in Texas.

Finally, a car arrives and many of us manage to get in it. Look, folks, the car is full of people and not so full of air. So the two garlic and curry eating fish poops in the back who chatter away at Warp 6 use up all the useful oxygen before we get to the 4th floor. Shut up. Shuttup. Shuttup. Shuttup. Same goes for the oral hygene challenged oaf babbling into his cell phone. Shut up. We need the air to last another 10 floors.

Tyr: I suppose you want your own private elevator? Or maybe a Batpole? I've always suspected that you've had a penchant for wearing tights. George Carlin suggested (3 decades ago, when he used to be funny) that a person in your situation should put raisins up his nose. Then when obnoxious people on the elevator (or trolley) see you pick them out and eat them, they will stop whatever they are doing and gape, which makes them very quiet.

In summary: An elevator is no place to meet women.

Tyr and Thor