Well, it turns out that's not good for you either because today, I became the London Philharmonic wind instruments section.
It was bad.
The Hindenburg in flames didn't have as much burning gas burgeoning out of it as I did today. These granola bars had me running to the bathroom clenching my cheeks and all the while, trying to pretend like everything's normal:
"hello... Mr. president of our department. No I can't talk about that case right now but maybe in a minute. Why? Because I'm about to shit myself."
It doesn't even get better when you finally get to the bathroom because by then you're ready to go all Meg Ryan from When Harry met Sally. Of course there are times, like today, when there are other people in the bathroom so you try to be quiet but then your ass does all the talking for you. It's so bad that you see feet from under the stall, and through the slight crack in the door that you anxiously try to stay away from, hurriedly walking out trying to look like their not rushing out, and you catch yourself looking down to see if you have on distinctive shoes or pants, just in case anyone in the office who happened to be in there with you caught a glimpse under the stall...
you do, by the way, because it's at this moment you realize your wife was right and that you are the only person you can think of that wears loafers with black pants.
So you are now the office natural gas emitter. "No need to buy an expensive propane tank for the company picnic, Bob, we can just shove a hose up Dylan's ass and that should get those steaks nice and browwwwwn...
Of course all the while that I'm writing this, I can only think to myself:
#firstworldproblems...
