Last night, two stops from my destination, the subway decided to catch fire and I was forced, along with half of Toronto, to walk down Yonge Street.
I’m not complaining. I like a good walk after work. What got me pissed was having to walk behind a lot of smokers, which meant I had to endure clouds of second hand smoke and ashes blown in my direction. Ugh.
I’m sure you’ve heard of the Urban Dictionary version of “crop dusting“:
Passing gas in a stealth manor [sic], usually while walking through a crowd or a group, so that someone else gets blamed for the stench, or at the very least people besides the assailent [sic] must suffer it.
Yes. I did a couple last night.
The twist on this tale, my friends, is how I alert SharkBoy that I’m going to assail some poor bastard behind us. This is what I say:
“Okay so he gets off the bus and he’s standing in the middle of a field all alone. Crazy long shot of him utterly alone. Two roads converging in the middle of nothing. And him alone! And suddenly a plane comes from no where and brrrooooffmfppp! It tries to run him down! A plane. Tries to run down Carey Grant. Forget that if anything touches your prop on a plane, you instantly crash. But on the second pass, a machine gun is fired, so that’s ok…”
I could go on but by this time I’m all farted out. Now all I have to say is: “He gets off the bus and it’s like, nothing around!” poot.
Anyway, back to last night.
I’m about to pass this munchkin of a man who is smoking like a drag queen (draws in a toke, throws head back and with pursed lips, exhales in a thin fast stream of vile choke). As I approach, he looks over his shoulder to see if any buses are coming. We lock eyes. My eyes say “you dirty fucker” because I’ve had to endure a block and a half of his weird smoking and ash flicking. His eyes say “get over yourself, Mary”.
I cut in front and release the solitary Carey Grant from my ass.
Actually that’s where my story ends. No sharting, no coughing, no other incident. Sorry.