As I write this I’m sitting in an airport terminal, at a table by a grilled cheese restaurant.
And someone just farted.
Holy shit, it smells bad. And here’s the worst part—the woman who was sitting next to me just rose and left. Which means either:
A. She was the one who farted.
B. She thinks I was the one who farted.
I’m guessing B, because if she had farted, she’d do what we all do—make a crooked expression and pretend to be disgusted.
Farting is a funny thing, because of the noise. But it’s not a funny thing, because right now the fermented anal gas of a stranger is making its way up my nasal passages. Which means, in a sense, someone took an air shit in my nose.
Gross.
