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 Farting For Spite (For Real)Posted 07.23.2007 by Shits Happily I... (134)
Not too terribly long ago, someone posted a story called Farting For Spite. It was deemed by the more discriminating Poopeteers amongst us to be if not entirely fictional, then grossly embellished to the point that it was impossible to suspend our disbelief. My fecal friends: I have a true story of farting for spite. It is a tale of the angst, a tale of revenge, and a tale of the cursed lactose intolerance that taunts many of us.
During college I worked at a major retailer whose name rhymes with "Paycee Jenny's." I worked in the women's plus-size department; and that area brought quite a bit of stress. I was not a plus size and I was in my early twenties (but looked like a seventeen-year-old) -- and both of those factors convinced my customers that I did not know the merchandise nor did I know what I was talking about. I also had several other associates in the area who were not the best. The one involved in this story was older -- in her sixties, I think -- and she did whatever she could to be rude and belittle me in front of customers. I normally dealt with this by avoiding her and ignoring her. (She was like this to a lot of the employees, so I wasn't singled out, which made it easier.) One Saturday, the store was crowded (and grossly understaffed, as usual) with our typical motley crew: white trash, bored and snotty suburban housewives, ghetto denizens, and others. The store was hot and I was at the register ringing people up as fast as I could, but there was still a long line of rude people pissed because they had to wait. (Hey, if you don't want to wait in line, don't fucking shop at a mall on a Saturday afternoon!) My register counter was open on my side and attached to a pillar, on which was a hook where we hung clothes that required a hanging bag. The register itself was on the far right side, snuggled against the pillar. My co-worker -- let's call her "Pissy" -- was bagging items and repeatedly telling me that I was screwing up my ringing. I wasn't. The customers were even more unpleasant, thinking that I was overcharging them. A woman came up behind me and sat on a chair next to the register. It was a standard metal chair that had been placed there earlier in the morning to stack boxes on while unloading merchandise. I asked her (politely) to please move, as she was next to the register and blocking the hook on which I needed to put clothes. She refused -- her feet were tired, she said. I asked again. Not only did she refuse, she said something snotty to her friend in Spanish. I really could have called security, but I had too much else going on. The next customer was very rude as well. Pissy was being, well, you know. I had this other wretch on a chair, right where my register was, disrespecting me. And I had about a hundred people interrupt me with stupid questions. The stress and turmoil were really starting to affect me. Flashback: I love chocolate milk. I really do. I used to have a milk allergy, which then evolved into lactose intolerance. Which means certain that while kinds of dairy are okay, chocolate milk is not. My dad had purchased a big glass bottle of it, and before I came into work that afternoon, I had a very small glass -- about four ounces, if that. Flash forward to me in anger and stress behind the counter. Deep in my intestines, my chocolate milk was ready to fight for me -- perhaps as a conciliatory gesture to make up for all my love it was unable to return. As the rudeness and disrespect escalated, the churning in my tummy became more intense. There was a lactose fist at the door, and it was chanting to me, "I think you hear me knocking, and I think I'm coming out, and I'm bringing the big, bad SBD with me!" The big, bad is SBD is the lethal concoction which is really about my only kind of fart. No rattlers for me! The stench is worse than shit sometimes; and while I try to keep it in, it was about to be used as a tool to fashion revenge. I let a small one go. It really did stink, smelling just like a pebble of poo might. I let another go. And then another. And they began to make a difference. The stink ripped through the air and covered the nasal passages. I moved around to spread the wealth. I backed up and farted on the bitch in the chair while bending over to get a bag. She replaced her smirk with a fanning of her nose with her hand, a disgusted look, and a giggle. And then she left. I bent over to pick up something off the floor and let one fly in Pissy's face. "Do you have gas?" she asked. "No, I don't," I said innocently, with wide eyes. "Do you smell something?" The customer at the counter crinkled her nose in disgust. Meanwhile, the green fumes from my ass had, no doubt, formed a Jolly Roger; he was cackling maniacally with me. I was perpetually in motion -- farting on Pissy, farting on anyone behind me, just farting in general. My ass had become a fine-tuned weapon, exacting justice on those who had wronged me. After a few minutes, my colon declared a ceasefire, and some semblance of peace was restored to the fart-riddled battlefield. I triumphantly walked to the employees' bathroom for a well-deserved shit, with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. Pissy's shift was over. Another associate arrived. The crowds slowed as the evening wore on. I spent the rest of my shift folding sweaters and cleaning out fitting rooms. After the store had closed, I had to hurry home -- I had a hot date with chocolate milk. Post new comment
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