I’m sitting in the Managers Training session the other day (Proper Phone Etiquette for Greater Communications Understandings and a Greater Soviet Future!) and someone is farting.
Not audible farts, mind you, but silent ones that creep up on you. Three or four sniffs after the massive storm cloud rolls over into your personal space you realize you’re ingesting someone else’s digested gas. Gag reflexes suppressed.
By the fourth poot bomb I was getting sick.
By the fifth one, I was suspecting my table neighbour as being the source. As I am sure she was suspecting me.
Suddenly the presenter, who has been walking all over the room calls upon me to stand and talk. She hands me the mic. In doing so, I’m engulfed in a fresh cloud of ass fragrance and realize this person is the phantom pooter.
In my hand is a microphone hooked up to our west coast office with about 10 leaders in attendance. I’m also standing in a room of about 15 local managers. The urge to yell: “WE’RE BEING GASSED! CALL FOR HELP!” was so great I nearly forgot what I had to actually say.
That’s my work story for Friday.