Little Miss Class And Her Backdoor Pass

After the movie my husband and I went to see had ended, I felt the effects of my Bladder Buster soda working, and found my way to the theatre’s ladies room.

As I enter, I hear a woman’s voice talking loudly, and I see entering one of the stalls a perky, fashionably dressed little chatterbox of a princess. I think nothing of it, and assume she is speaking to a friend in the next stall or something. Not my style, but none of my business, either. I just have to pee.

So I find an empty stall easily enough, since the washroom is almost deserted, save for me, the princess, and whoever her silent friend is…

As I am getting my little paper toilet seat positioned just so (as I am a princess in my own right, just of a quieter sort and who dislikes the “hover” position), the Chatterbox Princess speaks louder, and I realise that her silent friend is actually her cellphone. Wow. Well, once again, not my style, but none of my business. I take care of my own business and try to ignore the one-sided conversation blaring from a few stalls down.

However, as I am getting myself pulled together again, I overhear Chatterbox Princess anyway, and since she doesn’t seem to care who hears, I just give up and allow the words into my head:

“It’s not like they’ve got any money.” Pause. “God, what is it with you? They’re not like us. You act as if they are so classy!”

And at the perfect moment, even though I am not a fan of bathroom humour, it took all I could not to laugh aloud when, the second she finished her sentence, she let out a loud, resounding,* trumpeting*, hideous fart.

The echoing washroom falls suddenly still and silent.

“I’ll call you back.” Snap.

I stood frozen in my stall, eyes watering, cheeks red, and waited for her to finish up and bolt out of there.

So that is the sound of true class.

New money waits to fart till it hangs up.

Old money waits to hang up till it farts.

I think you should have outed Princes by loudly asking her to pass you some toilet paper, or flushing.

Hmm… I think she knew I was there, despite my churchmouse quietness. I had to walk past her stall to get to mine. Then again, she seemed pretty oblivious to the rest of the world, the way she was talking, so maybe she truly thought she was alone.

Had my husband been there, he would never have missed this, what he would consider a Golden Opportunity. My husband, as mature as he is otherwise, is given to making great ripping noises by blowing against the skin between his thumb and index finger. He’s gotten quite proficient at it, to the point that it sounds hideously real. Usually, this is met with my gentle but long-suffering gaze that says, simply, “Please.” He will then mumble apologies, duck his head, look in the other direction… and do it again. I’m pleased with my husband’s individuality in that he doesn’t allow my disgust with this habit to keep him from enjoying it himself, and not letting me restrict his actions.

Upon relating the washroom incident to him, his only reaction was, “Awwww, damn! Why couldn’t that have been me in your place! You know what you should have done?” And immediately begins blowing a series of god-awful noises on the skin between his thumb and forefinger.

And I suppose he’s right. I should have. :smack:

“Pardon me, but could I borrow $50 so I can shit with class?”