I hate hand dryers

I really hate hand dryers. This is no common or garden hatred. This is seething, seeing red, want-to-rip-my-hair-out-at-the-sheer-audacity-to -even-exist hatred. If I walk into a bathroom and see one on the wall it makes me wish I had a nice weighty flat-head shovel so I could lever the fucking thing right off like I was ripping a rusty old nail out of a rotten piece of wood. Conversely, if I see one of those big roller-wipe-your-hands-dry things I dance a jig of joy right there on the spot like Michael Flatley in the middle of a chronic bout of haemorrhoids he happened to contract while walking bare foot over hot coals.

I hate sachets

I hate them so much that thinking about them makes me want to tear off Ronald McDonald’s head and stick it up Colonel Sanders’ ass. The Colonel would probably be into that and would just keep smiling. Anyway, sachets are the bane of my life. Everyone likes condiments - they make food taste better. Ketchup, mayonnaise, mustard. These things
are like food enhancing drugs that you want to spread liberally on every meal you eat. The last thing you want when you are starving and want to drown your processed fake burger and cardboard chips in red and white gloop is to have to struggle for five minutes ripping, tearing and biting at some pathetic little plastic rectangle that will only yield a pea-sized amount of the gear. Fuck that. I want gallons of the stuff.