I was already in a weird funk waiting for my plane back to Denver from California last Sunday. I had already stuck claim to the lovely column by which you decided to sit as well. I had already become as comfortable as I could. And, I thought, I had already put my don't-sit-by-me face on.
Apparantly, you don't read social cues. And, when it came down to it, I didn't really care if you sat by me as long as you didn't chat loudly on your blackberry or make pointless calls to coworkers on a Sunday to make them think you were working. You see, THESE were my concerns. I was wrong.
As it turns out, I should have been more worried about your silent but deadly gas passing. And by silent, I mean I heard the first one. And the third. But I smelled all three with great nausea and a heavy heart.
When I moved, you looked up at me and tried to play it off as if you were just looking around. But deep down, you were wondering if it was your noxious butt that forced me to leave.
Well, I'm here to ease your wondering mind. Yes. Yes I left because of your farts. I hope this puts to rest any further confusion as to why I moved.
Sincerely,
Montastic
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