Fart story #265 coming your way. #264 can be found HERE.
If you don’t like the flatulence subject matter, I’m sure you could find solace in a non-farting blog. There are plenty out there. Or, just go listen to the Pussycat Doll song, “I Hate My Farts.” Seriously, the lyrics to that song are hysterical!
Yesterday I went to the bottle store. The “bottle store” is what our family calls the liquor/alcohol/beer/wine store. When the kids were babies we started calling it that. I think it was because we went there so often, we didn’t want our kids to think we were drunks. We would rather have them think we just really liked bottles. Huh? I know. Weird. But, don't pretend you don’t have these little odd things you do in your families too.
So, I’m in the bottle store stocking up on wine. I have such expensive taste that when the big bottle of Lindeman’s Bin Chardonnay goes on sale for $6.99, I have some serious stocking up to do. I whipped out my credit card to pay for the wine, but kept it in my cart for the cashier to scan (important detail). This is the cashier who always calls me “cutie,” and when I tell her (yes, her) to have a nice day, she always says “You betcha!” She is the best downhome cashier in the land.
I paid for my bottles and she asked if I wanted a box for all of them. Hell, yes. A box will make loading them into my car all the easier. Plus, who needs a million bottles rattling and clinking around in your car during the drive home? That is pet peeve #265.
Right as I told You Betcha Lady, “Yes, in fact, I would like a box,” I did an SBD (Silent But Deadly fart). It was so small. I can’t even explain to you how non-existent I thought it was. I mean, had I known it might have consequences, I would have just held it in. No harm, no foul. Plus, not like anyone was behind me. Yet (foreshadow).
You Betcha Lady went to grab a box. Then she came up behind me to put all the bottles that were in my cart in the box. DAMMIT! When I let the SBD slide, I had not anticipated that she would be coming out from behind the counter with the box and getting in my stink zone. I immediately reassured myself by thinking, “Oh, it’s not that bad.” That’s the weirdest thing about farts. The farter never thinks it’s as bad as the rest of the world.
You Betcha Lady put the box in my cart and yelled, “MAN, THESE BOXES STINK!” I leaned in to smell the box, not feeling bad about blaming a box for what I had done. “Yes!”, I replied. “They do stink. Where have they been? By the dumpster??” She kind of shrugged. I said, “Oh, well! Have a nice day.” To which she replied (right on cue) “You betcha!” No stinky box gonna ruin her day.