As a general rule, I'm not a big fan of shopping. Don't get me wrong - if anybody wants to send me on a spree to prove just how fun the mall can be, I'm all over it like a ... like a ...... well, I can't think of anything funny but like someone really enthusiastic, okay? Damn. It's like you expect me to be hilarious or something.
But grocery shopping is a whole other beast. I despise it. Every time I go to the store, I'm on a mission: in and out. There and back. Done and done. Quick and painless.
Yesterday my mom's car wouldn't start, and she needed to pick up a few things from Walmart, so I said I'd take her. Unfortunately, I'm three days into my obligatory New Year's Diet and drank like a gallon of water before we left the house. I avoid public restrooms like the plague, so I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot while we waited in line at the pharmacy counter. The woman in front of us was in one of those motorized scooters and didn't give a shit that she was blocking an entire pathway - but she reeked of cigarette smoke and had a neck tattoo and Cookie Monster-printed pants, so I'm pretty sure she didn't give a shit about a lot of things. When we finally left purgatory - I mean, the pharmacy line - my bladder was about to burst. That's when Mom decided she needed burner covers. And a whisk. And a spatula. And a muffin pan. And a lamp. And light bulbs. All before we hit up the other side of the store for groceries.
I resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to pee at Walmart. My only consolation was that maybe squatting over the toilet seat would, like, burn some calories or something.
When I came out of the restroom - where, incidentally, I was the only person who washed my hands afterward - I headed to the grocery section to find Mom. I could see her, so I sped to catch up before she disappeared down another aisle. I was doing that brisk, purposeful walk - you know, the kind of stride you get into when you're in a hurry. Which, of course, meant that I ended up walking behind The Slowest Person in Walmart.
This guy wasn't handicapped or ancient or anything. I mean he was old - old enough so that the back hair curling up from the neck of his dingy T-shirt was gray - but not old enough to warrant being slower than a turtle in peanut butter. And yet he was meandering along, talking to the younger lady he was with, strolling ever so casually down the very center of the aisle. So naturally, I kind of ended up running right up behind him, at a closer distance than I'd ever normally walk behind someone.
Unfortunately, at the precise moment I was thisclose to dude's ass, he ripped a fart so deafeningly loud, so juicy, so public, that any of my boys would have been impressed.
I swear I saw the back of his shirt flapping and felt a hot breeze as the gas roared from his rear. Please enjoy the following dramatization ... pretend the chick in the yellow bikini is the fart.
Yeah. It was something like that. Hit me outta nowhere, man.
My first reaction was complete and utter shock - but then I closed my gaping mouth, lest I get some fart in it. I hope whoever was watching the surveillance cameras got a good laugh at my horrified face. I swerved around him, but not before feeling like my entire coat was contaminated with Eau de Ass.
He didn't skip a beat. Just kept on talking. I thought maybe a fart of that caliber would have at least jet-propelled him forward a little, but he never even sped up one bit. His companion didn't seem to notice, so I'm thinking she was either used to it or deaf. Because MY LORD.
I guess it was kind of my fault for being that close to him, but I was in the process of heading around him and it was just a matter of perfect timing. Clearly he didn't see me coming, so he couldn't have farted as punishment for my breach of his space. I was just in the wrong place at the exact moment when this guy decided to release a butthole bomb of epic proportions. Talk about not giving a shit!
... Or, from the sound of that fart, maybe he actually did. Literally. Ew.
I think it's time to have my coat dry-cleaned. Just in case.