Shit happens

After a hearty feed of cabbage rolls and bean salad, I’m sitting on the front stoop here at Falling Downs, conversing with the Farm Manager, when I rip forth a fart that is remarkable both for its pungency and its decibel level.

The Farm Manager immediately segues into a monologue that is an epic rant about what a vulgar asshole I am. She even mentioned Mr. Trump in her rant, and while I understand that he has upped the ante in many avenues of vulgarity, I have yet to read any anti-Trump missives that mention Trumpian farts.

I am obviously alone on the beachhead of anti-establishment farts.

Does she not realise that I was once the victim of a rogue lower bowel? That during my stay at a fine waterfront hotel I mistook the signs of an impending bowel movement for a mere fart?

Please, have some consideration! Even some mercy, maybe!

Yes, I can fairly be accused of being a “vulgar asshole,” although in my heart of hearts I remain convinced that I’m not really that bad…

So here’s what really happened.

The Irving shipyard hired me at an interview here in Ontario. They flew me out to NB for a look-see. I must have missed the part about which hotel to stay in. I was apparently supposed to stay in one of the hotels that the Irvings owned, and they own more than they don’t own out there.

So I end up at the waterfront Saint John Hilton. Months later I had a bit of a thing getting compensated for staying at the wrong hotel, but it all worked out in the end. Like I’ve said before, the Irvings were always more than fair with this working class schmuck.

But let’s get back to the shitty nitty gritty…

Ya, I’m in the shower in my very smooth room at the waterfront Hilton in Saint John… I feel a major fart coming on…

You know how that ends.

But then the Farm Manager floors me with the rejoinder that every girl in the world has a worse story than that about their first period.

Have to admit that having a shit in the shower has nothing on bleeding through your pants in your grade nine math class.