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When I first started teaching I had a part time retail job at a store specializing in Bath and Body products. I actually really liked it there for the most part; but teaching, grading, lesson planing, and clinging desperately to my sanity didn't leave me enough time to work there and sleep so sadly I had to quit.
Now, for the most part the customers were freaking awesome. For the most part. There was an occasional screaming kid, or bitchy EW--like you would expect.
But nothing could prepare me for what happened one night during the Christmas season.
I was merrily prancing around the store showing off our products ('cause I'm a wicked nerd like that) when I heard a crash coming the middle of the floor. Apparently a lady was sniffing some of our 3-in-1 holiday scent products and sent the whole display crashing to the floor--breaking a few bottles in the process.
Ok, no biggie, this happens all the time. I skip out back to grab some paper towels and assure the customer it was no problem at all (not that she seemed worried, all she did was grumble about "improper set up" or some silly "it's not my fault you made me break your stuff" excuse).
Now, I'm crouched on the floor cleaning up puddles of gingerbread scented goo when all of a sudden my nose starts screaming in terror and my eyes water up in self defense. The most rancid stench rapes my nostril and when I look up I am eye to cheek with the biggest butt cannon I've seen.
Basically--DUDE JUST FUCKING FARTED ON MY HEAD!
I'll be honest--I'm really immature and farts make me laugh, not gag. Usually. This gas cloud of death was no mere fart. It was a cold blooded (misted?) killer and I was its target. I wanted to run--hell, I wanted to cry--but I still had puddles to clean up. Wrap your head around that: one fart overpowered the scent of at least three broken bottles of gingerbread scented body wash.
Thankfully it took numerous trips to the waste basket so I could hold my breath and finish the job (don't farts usually waft away?? This thing was clinging for dear life!). My manager would not believe me at first, even when I quietly pointed out my attacker (and yes, he knew what he did--he at least had the decency to look embarassed), but when she finally went over to sniff it out herself she came hurrying back half disgusted half hysterical. (At this point our customers were just about shuffling out the door, so we made sure not to call their attention to it)
When I finally finished cleaning the infected area I begged to "take out the trash" (code for a smoke break) and with tears in her eyes she gave me permission. Her explination to my hasty retreat followed me into the freezing but thankfully scentless air:
"Hahahahah*gaspwheeeze* Shroo has to go outside for a cigarette *gasp* because that guy just farted in her face hahahahahaha."
Now, for the most part the customers were freaking awesome. For the most part. There was an occasional screaming kid, or bitchy EW--like you would expect.
But nothing could prepare me for what happened one night during the Christmas season.
I was merrily prancing around the store showing off our products ('cause I'm a wicked nerd like that) when I heard a crash coming the middle of the floor. Apparently a lady was sniffing some of our 3-in-1 holiday scent products and sent the whole display crashing to the floor--breaking a few bottles in the process.
Ok, no biggie, this happens all the time. I skip out back to grab some paper towels and assure the customer it was no problem at all (not that she seemed worried, all she did was grumble about "improper set up" or some silly "it's not my fault you made me break your stuff" excuse).
Now, I'm crouched on the floor cleaning up puddles of gingerbread scented goo when all of a sudden my nose starts screaming in terror and my eyes water up in self defense. The most rancid stench rapes my nostril and when I look up I am eye to cheek with the biggest butt cannon I've seen.
Basically--DUDE JUST FUCKING FARTED ON MY HEAD!
I'll be honest--I'm really immature and farts make me laugh, not gag. Usually. This gas cloud of death was no mere fart. It was a cold blooded (misted?) killer and I was its target. I wanted to run--hell, I wanted to cry--but I still had puddles to clean up. Wrap your head around that: one fart overpowered the scent of at least three broken bottles of gingerbread scented body wash.
Thankfully it took numerous trips to the waste basket so I could hold my breath and finish the job (don't farts usually waft away?? This thing was clinging for dear life!). My manager would not believe me at first, even when I quietly pointed out my attacker (and yes, he knew what he did--he at least had the decency to look embarassed), but when she finally went over to sniff it out herself she came hurrying back half disgusted half hysterical. (At this point our customers were just about shuffling out the door, so we made sure not to call their attention to it)
When I finally finished cleaning the infected area I begged to "take out the trash" (code for a smoke break) and with tears in her eyes she gave me permission. Her explination to my hasty retreat followed me into the freezing but thankfully scentless air:
"Hahahahah*gaspwheeeze* Shroo has to go outside for a cigarette *gasp* because that guy just farted in her face hahahahahaha."
If you ever hear a trumpet suddenly stop playing or gag into his or her horn, you know what happened. And then everyone laughs. Oh, and the director has a bubble around him. He'll be like "what's going on guys?" and walk right over to it and suddenly the smell disappears.
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