button button whose got the button

It's never OK to make jokes about explosives at the check-in counter. Lucky I'm not at the check-in counter and lucky I'm not joking.

I have of late stopped wasting keystrokes about the evil badness of the boss-beast because it makes my eyebrows fall out, but seriously, the time has come.

It's time to mix fertiliser (made from the dried out dissertations that spew forth from the beast's mouth) with chemicals (the moisture extracted during the drying process) and flame (using any of the many inflammatory e-mails the beast sends out in the course of lying and deceiving it's way through another week) and blast the fucker to someplace that's crawling with reavers.

(and... exhale.)