There seems to be a rash of beer and poop related threads around here, so I figured this would be the perfect time for a thread that combines them both.
When I drink a lot of beer, the next morning is often a very, uh, “moving” experience. I’ll produce a nice big, brown bowl that makes it look like I had metamucil pancakes for breakfast.
Except today, instead of the usual turbo-dump, I got nuclear powered beer farts. I’m not talking about a little gas, I’m talking about how-much-rotten-broccoli-and-eggs-did-you-eat-last-night, knock-an-elephant-dead-at-thirty-yards toxic emissions. If Bush is still looking for weapons of mass destruction, he should come over here because I’ve got one warming my chair right now.
Sitting inside my closed door office, I let a few really nice ones rip. There’s just something magical about absolutely polluting an enclosed airspace and then stewing in it. Of course, when someone else does it, it’s gross, vile, and disgusting, but when you do it yourself it’s a fine work of olfactory art.
Just as I was finishing up my handiwork, my manager came by wanting to talk. Uh oh. But he stood by the door and didn’t really come inside, so I thought he might not have smelled it (or maybe he did and was wisely keeping his distance.)
He left, and the danger was over. What better way to celebrate than to let fly a few more stinkers? The long squeaky kind, the ones that just reek. With the additions of a trench and some dead Frenchmen, my office would have been a perfect recreation of a World War I battlefield.
Two minutes passed, and then I heard another knock on the door. The manager. Again. Except this time he stepped inside.
I was able to refrain from further expulsion while he was in here, but judging from the funny look on his face and the way he slowly backed away from me during our conversation, I don’t think I scored any brownie points.
Now if you’ll just excuse me for a moment…