Well, I’ve invented several, it appears.
First is the Malingering Anal Vapors.
I was in Nordstrom’s at Santa Anita this spring, preparing to take the escalator up. I knew that I was likely to vent my colon before reaching the top, and so I stopped and let the other people board first, out of consideration.
Halfway up, sure enough… a silent but deadly escapes me. But there was still no one on the escalator behind me. Good.
I reach the top and head for the store exit, forgetting about the incident. Until I’m halfway to the doors, when I hear from behind me “Auugh!” “Ewww!” “Oh Sweet Jesus!” and I turn to see a small crowd of people stumbling off the top of the escalator, glaring at me.
"Oops. Sorry. " 
Second is the Red-handed Eavesdropper.
My wife and I are both incurable eavesdroppers. If we are in public and we hear another interesting conversation, ours will stop and we will listen in. We even have a signal, for “are you listening to that?” (It’s the smoothing out the eyebrow gesture.)
But sometimes our victims are too savvy. Or we’re just not slick enough. And the conversation stops and we get a glare or two from the other party.
“Oops. Sorry.”
Third is Not Expecting to Meet You Here.
So once, many many years ago, I was at the local video store, you know, that one that has a back room with a curtained entrance, and a sign reading “No one under 18 allowed.” And I emerged from said room bearing an armload of boxes bearing titles like “Ass Bonanza,” “Girls Who Love Their Toys,” and “Zoophilic Lesbian Midget Shemale Gangbang 23.” (Just curious, you know.) And Lo and Behold, there’s my bosses’ wife, with her two school-age children, renting Disney movies.
And the encounter starts with “Oh, Hi bughunter!” and then she notices what her children are staring at: my selections. “Umm… well we have to run.”
And it ends with me stammering, “Oh… hello… there, Stella.”
Fourth is similar, titled Not Expecting to uh… Meet… uh… what was I gonna say?.
I had just started at my first job out of college, in a small town in Ventura County, and I was living in a corporate apartment while finding my own place. So I get off work, go home, smoke a bowl of some real dank bud, get the munchies, and wander down to Vons for some chili dog fixins. While browsing the aisles, I hear “Hi-diddle-o, Bughunter!”
Turns out, half the damn staff lives in that same apartment complex, and the nerdiest, squarest, most Ned Flanderish guy at work has to find me standing in front of the Fritos trying to make the monumental decision between regular and chili cheese flavor. Worse, I am so stoned I can’t even make eye contact, much less talk.
And he wants to have a friendly conversation. At least I still had my sunglasses on.
“Oh. Hi, Ned.” 
And finally there’s, They Remember but You Don’t.
I had my bachelor party on a Thursday night at the Gordon Biersch in Old Town Pasadena. They have a meeting room up stairs behind the bar. My friends got me rip roaring drunk. And brought in a stripper. And the room has a picture window looking out on the patio of the ritziest restaurant in Old Town… so they had to rig up curtains. And it got worse. Let’s just say that eventually I decorated three bathrooms and the patio outside with my dinner and an entire liquor cabinet worth of spirits. I barely remember it. Except for the vomiting parts. (Woo hoo!)
Anyway, it’s also one of my wife’s favorite places. And she was unaware of what had transpired there. So a few months after the wedding, she wants to eat at Gordon Biersch. I figure, hey it’s been long enough, right? But I forgot it was a Thursday.
As soon as we get there, I can tell the hostess recognizes me. “Oh, Hi Mr. bughunter.” Mrs. bughunter glances at me sideways.
“Oh. Heh. Hi.”
