The Perfect Song Blog

I ran into Wal Mart to get a grab a can of deodorant – Axe Tsunami. Leigh and I had just eaten dinner at the nearby TGI Friday’s. I had blackened chicken and fries. I always curse myself for eating the fries. I know better but I love the salt and the grease.

The grease does not love me. I felt a major gas attack coming. I hurried over to the Express Aisle which was developed for people with few goods who are in a hurry and people who have gas.

The line was at a standstill. The cashier stood staring at the machine. The customer, a young man stared blankly at her. Is it just me or do you see this a lot in stores? A cashier stymied by a stubborn machine, customer staring at her, then at the counter, then at her.

“Fran I need help?” The cashier called out like it was a question. No wonder she was having problems. She didn’t know the difference between a question and a command. Fran made her way over, stuck in her magic key (and I’ve seen this in enough stores that I’ve developed magic key envy).

The gas was building.

I turned my attention to a hyperactive three-year-old with curly blond hair who was karate chopping the air, falling on the floor, rolling, leaping up, and kicking out at a black guy built like a bear who ignored the kid. God, the mother must start the kid out with Coke for breakfast and let him dine on potato chips, cookies and donuts the rest of the day.

Mom appeared out of the aisle, pushing her cart and acting like she had a normal kid. She was tall, blonde and wore a low cut top that lead your eye down to her tan breasts.

As she entered the next aisle, a 20ish guy passed by and checked out her ass, thinking he was being subtle about it. I made a mental note that men just aren’t built for subtlety.

My bowels were about to burst.

The kid leaped, sucker-punched a bag of cheesies, whirled and disappeared into the next aisle.

Finally the cashier took the man’s check. “Oh I need to see your driver’s license,” she said laughing like she really enjoyed this game she played on minimum wage.

Finally the transaction was finished and two overweight blonde girls about 12 stepped up. The first one handed the cashier a tennis racket. “Could you scan it and tell me how much it is?” She asked quietly.

The cashier did. “$26.” She said.

The girl looked at her sister. The sister looked back.

The gas had worked its way down.

I had to fart.

“Do you want it?”: The cashier asked.

The girl nodded. The cashier rang it up. The girl looked at her money. Apparently she forgot about sales tax. Embarrassed, she shook her head.

The cashier said nothing and voided the sale.

I was on the verge of voiding. Come on! Move, folks!

Okay, we’re all adults here. I know you’ve experienced it. You’ve got gas and you know it’s big. You know you’re not going to let it out in little increments. You know when you relax the sphincter it’s really going to announce itself with authority.

Behind me now were an Indian mother and her daughter. They didn’t speak English, not that it mattered. It just meant I was truly sealed in. There’s no way I could fart at two generations of Indian women. It’s not only politically incorrect, it probably has some kind of international relations ramifications.

There was one guy ahead of me now. The two chubby girls had gone back into the store to find something else they couldn’t afford and hold up some other hapless middle aged guy with an internal ailment.

My God. I was ready to scream: “Attention Wal Mart Shoppers. I’m going to fart and it’s going to break the sound barrier. The blast is going to rock the shelves. Its intensity will knock you over, and while you’re down you’ll be begging God for nothing more than one good breath of fresh air. Those of you within 10 feet of me may be permanently damaged. Any women with babies, please cover them! You two Indian women, God rest your souls. You should never have come to America and gone shopping at Wal Mart.”

My head was bowed and I was mentally slapping duct tape on my butt to hold everything in when I realized it was my turn. The cashier rang up my deodorant. I paid her and got four cents back. “Thank you. Have a nice evening,” she said without meaning it. They never mean it. Why should they after a day of dealing with stubborn machines, chubby girls with no money, hyperactive kids with mothers showing off their boobs, and middle aged men who really have to fart?

I rushed to the exit door. A smiling little Wal Mart male senior citizen gave me a practiced smile. “Thank you for shopping at Wal Mart.”

I nodded, wanting to tell him just how close Wal Mart came to major internal wind and odor damage.

Outside, a motorcyclist pulled up to the stop sign where I stood. Yes! Yes! I remained there a moment and competed with his rumbling engine. He revved it a couple times waiting for pedestrians.

Finally he looked over at me. He had tears in his eyes. I’m not sure, but I think I melted his goggles.

He took off in a hurry and I, in great relief, went off to find my car.