Matt Stooks

Ninety percent of my job involves face-to-face interactions with the general public.  A fair number of these people emit foul odors.

Today, I was working with a lady and her male companion.  Both were in their 50s.  Toward the end of our long discussion, the smell of liquid scat filled the air.  Was it truly a fecal discharge?  Unlikely.  Even the most vile person would flee the area upon a pant deposit.  It had to be none other than the dreaded diarrhea fart.

While the smell was disgusting, I was more concerned with my customers thinking I had dealt it.  The suspects: me, the lady, her dude, and a lone passerby.  I can immediately rule out myself, and I’m fairly certain the lady didn’t concoct that rancid ass.  I didn’t get a good enough look at the passerby to give him better than even odds with the lady’s dude.

I couldn’t help but make a face when the smell hit me, but I didn’t notice the lady and her dude recoil.  Maybe the dude has some funky ass, and the lady has accepted it?

This is the ideal scenario, as the alternative horrifies me.

What if the passerby was the skunk?  Did he deliberately plant his seed right in our laps just to make an awkward scene?  Does he get his jollies going store to store, looking for victims of his gaseous talents?

If so, what an evil, brilliant asshole.