My fitting room at the Plantation is often a sweltering hot pit of funk, truth be told, due to the anal emissions of my middle aged, country fitting room attendant. She has a reputation of not only being very gassy (and proud of it “Better out than in”), but of also not knowing when to take a trip to the restroom when necessary. On more than one occasion a manager has had to either clean her or the salefloor up after she waited too long to make a sprint to the restroom and redecorated the seat of her pants in the process.
So, apparently Stinky had too many taquitos the night before, and her Midwestern tummy violently disagreed. Our fitting room is a large one, but it still is an enclosed space, so I’m SURE that it was much like any other day she worked: hot and stank, where you could actually feel and maybe see the odor. So, she’s farting away, happily relieving herself of the internal stress of the gas buildup, when it happens. Again, she doesn’t often realize when she needs to go, and apparently she isn’t keen on whether she has “the squirts” as my father used to call them or just gas. So she let ‘er rip. I can only imagine the look of shock and horror on her face when she felt something shoot down the back of her leg, but I’m certain that the fitting room, for the near future at least, will be a much fresher place to work. Kegels and abject fear of embarrassment work wonders on tightening a sphincter.