I'll try to shoehorn this in:
Regarding our previous assistant manager; I shudder to think what his home must have been like, based on his habits at work (Tangential, I know; but it needs to be told, as part of the healing process).

As I recall, he was once walking past the opened door of the occupied break room, paused, raised one leg, farted, listened to the various noises of protest from the gathered staff, then commented "everyone likes the smell of their own brew" before walking off. I think that brazen sensory vandalism* was in lieu of a formal introduction.

The mugs were innocent enough. Every morning, the cleaner had to round up several empty teacups from wherever they'd been abandoned throughout the building, corral them back to the staffroom and clean them (in a place where standing orders are that everyone is meant to clear their own mess). If he'd been in over the weekend, gaps in cleaning-staff coverage could mean a three-day accuumulation; which meant a general shortage of cups for everyone else, unless they chose to spend part of their 10 minute break doing his washing up for him.

But it's another time that really stands out: He was in the Gents, while someone else was in the Ladies. He eventually finishes** and leaves. Second lady, who's clearly in urgent need, decides she'll have to use the gents. She rushs into the freshly-vacated room, but immediately rushes out even faster, slightly pale in the face, declaring unsteadily that she'll just wait.

Well, sometimes you have to see what the fuss is about, don't you? I wish I hadn't. The stink was practically etching the window glass, and to paraphrase Ben Elton, the cubicle appeared to have recently been vacated by the man with a sprinkler attachement on his arse. I don't know what he'd consumed beforehand, but a litre of chilli sauce mixed with picolax seemed a real possibility. I could have understood him having left skidmarks, but this was a full-on crash-landing-and-bursting-into-flames-leaving-no-survivors.

Holding my breath, I flung the window as widely open as possible, hoping to spare my nearby colleagues the full trauma; then 'evacuated' the room and gasped down lungfuls of the relatively unsullied air of the locker room. No-one would have blamed me had I called it in as a CBRN*** incident, and pulled everyone back to safety while letting SCBA-suited**** fire crews hose down the area; but instead I waited for most of the stank to clear, double-gloved up, and reluctantly got to work.

Technically, I could have left it for the better-paid and better-equipped cleaner to address the following morning, but that would mean half the facilities would be offline for the rest of the day; and also by then it would have... set, and been that much harder to remedy. Additionally, I didn't want her mistakenly thinking it was me or one of the other lads who'd done it. To this day, she doesn't know the horror she dodged.

* The lovely phrase "brazen sensory vandalism" has been appropriated from a tale by Rookie.
** But only for a given value of "Finish", apparently.
*** Chemical/Biological/Radiological/Nuclear, aka HazMat.
**** Self Contained Breathing Apparatus, aka Firefighters Mask.
(The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Sat 27 Mar 2010, 21:53, 2 replies)

A click for manning up.
Well done, sir.
(posthumous mince is tiptoeing through the tulips, Sat 27 Mar 2010, 23:47, closed)

Yeah, what he said.
*clicks*
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Sun 28 Mar 2010, 0:11, closed)