One time, while I was a waiter, I went to greet a table. I needed to fart, just a little, so I thought I’d sneak one out. At this restaurant, too, the music was particularly loud. Well, right as I do this, the music dips real low.

Also, my little toot ended up being a cheek jiggling, apocalyptic trumpet, body deflating FART. The hurricane Katrina of flatulence. By some miracle of of an ancient God, I did not soil myself, but this was the noise the term Shitstorm refers too. It was there longest 10 seconds of my life, these six people trapped in a booth all staring at me as I violated the Geneva convention at their local Roadhouse. The father’s mouth dropped open in disbelief– a mistake, because he tasted it almost immediately and had to suppress a gag. A child started crying elsewhere in the building.

I, of course, say nothing. How could I? I just leave the table. Just a long fart and then I dipped. I told one of my coworkers I had already greeted them, and she agreed to take them. The funny thing is that this table never mentioned it, to the server or the manager. It was like it never happened. Maybe they thought they deserved it. Maybe they thought it was a shared delusion. Maybe they thought I was an elder God sent to show madness. They stared at me every time I walked by, and I couldn’t make eye contact, because I saw what was in their eyes.

*The Fear*