The Pits.

You all probably know by now that I hate my day job. I realised one big contributing factor of that hatred today; a lot of my colleagues stink. Really bad. The notion of deodorant or even soap is viewed as heresy by these malodorous morons.
Lately, because we've been busy, the management in their infinite wisdom have decided to get temps in to help out. We get our temps from a company called 'Best Connections'. Well, I'd hate to see the worst ones. Every one of them is yampy (that's a Brummie word meaning 'mental' or 'daft') and has severe personal hygiene problems. The newest one we have could kill a canary at two hundred paces. He smells like he wipes his arse on his hair. He has a pungency that mere words cannot even begin to describe. I reckon we get the damaged ones because they're a bit cheaper; Kind of like broken biscuits.
It's not just the temps; there are blokes who've been there for donkey's years who are just as bad. Don't get me wrong-everyone has the right to be smelly, but these fuckers abuse the privilege. There's the mud-monster, let's just call him T- when he last washed his hair, John Smith was leader of the opposition. He did it under duress as well. He recently ate a yoghurt with the communal tea-spoon, scratched his filthy head with it and then put it back, unwashed, where he found it. Many a time has he come into work with his dinner down his shirt. He's had an ear infection for as long as I've known him (12 years) which sometimes results in a piccalilli-type substance running out of the side of his head. Once, while eating a kebab, a farmfoods one you have to warm up yourself, a bit of bone in it blocked his passages and was choking him. After lots of wet retching and sucking sounds, he regurgitated what he'd been eating into his hands, flicked out the offending piece of bone, and swallowed it all back down again.
Then there's B, who has wore the same shirt as long as I've known him, but apparently he wore it long before I joined the company. I don't know what colour it was originally, but it's a kind of pale blue now, with yellow patches under each arm. He once told me that deodorants "are for poofs" which precluded him from using it. B also has half a pound of lard in his hair, and grey teeth that resemble Witton Cemetery. B was recently caught pissing in the sink, probably to keep the urinals clean, because he used to leave his sandwich, half eaten, on top of the pisspot, while he was having a slash, so he could carry on eating it when he'd finished. B has a kind of musty smell to him, not as strong as some, but it smells like he sleeps under a tarpaulin in the shed. He's ugly as well; he fell out of the ugly tree and smacked his face on every branch on the way down. Having a wash won't change that, though.
The worst one, though, is no longer with us. (He's left the company-he's not dead; just smells like he is.) He used to just work in his vest, as this was best for giving us, his colleagues, the full benefit of his armpits. His name is funny, as it relates to his smelliness, but I daren't tell you, just in case. He used to do strange things like dip a steak and kidney pie in his tea. His face and legs were always covered in scabs. Once, when he bent over to get something out of a bin, I saw a brown stripe on the back of the underpants that were on show, because of his ill-fitting filthy tracksuit bottoms.Whenever he was near I used to stick my finger up my arse and then hold that finger under my nose. Anything than smell that bastard. (Not really, though I was tempted) What made him the worst was that he knew he was a smelly bastard. He didn't have the ignorance of other stinkers. He'd stand next to you just to drop his guts and do a 'hurr-hurr' laugh like Fergie from Judge Dredd. These kind of farts hang in your clothes and hair for at least an hour afterwards.
How difficult is it to keep clean? How do you tell a smellly fucker that he stinks without causing upset? Lately, I've found out that shouting "YOU FUCKING STINK!" in their grubby boatraces doesn't help.