As a kid, my favorite TV character was Oscar the Grouch. Okay, it really was probably Grover, but Oscar the Grouch was a close second. Just last week, the puppeteer who ‘was’ Oscar the Grouch retired. I was secretly sad. I mean, I always like him, and I always wondered about him, I mean:
Why was he grouchy?
Why did he live in a garbage can?
Where did he go to the bathroom?
What did that garbage can smell like?
Anyway, there’s this young guy at work. He’s like 30 something. He often makes me think of Oscar the Grouch because he’s always complaining. If being a curmudgeon was an Olympic sport, he’d take home at least a silver. It’s like he’s practicing to be the world’s grumpiest old man.
So, when Oscar’s puppeteer announced his retirement, I was really thinking about Oscar all day.
As I was pondering what that garbage can must have smelled like, my young curmudgeon coworker walked by. Slowly, but completely, the musky aroma of a silent but deadly fart engulfed our cube farm.
The young curmudgeon had properly timed his SBD move so that he was no longer in the office when the stifling aroma hit.
It was Killer. It smelled as if he had been gluttonously feasting on ketchup covered onion smothered hot dogs with massive sides of baked beans, broccoli, and roasted Brussel sprouts, all washed down with a 12 pack of Gennessee Cream Ale.
Three cock roaches crawled out from under desks and coughed and gagged as they ran for the door.
About 20 minutes later he came back to his desk with a piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe. I blurted out, “Dude – You about killed us with the crop-dusted fart!”.
He sheepishly said, “Huh? I didn’t fart.”.
The two thirds of the office that sat near me stared at him. I stared at him. He looked at his shoes. We knew. He knew.
I now not only know what Oscar the Grouch’s trash can must smell like, but I’m also worried about if and when the hairs inside my nose will grow back.