![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Tuesday – Flatulent Charlie
Feb. 3rd, 2009 01:48 pm.
.
.
I got a message the other day from Bren, who I used to work with at the Toll Road Authority. She wanted to let me know that the wife of Flatulent Charlie had died in a car accident, in case I wanted to show my respects. Charlie was head of the Revenue Collections department at the Toll Road Authority when I worked there several years back. He is a crusty old grouch with white hair, a white moustache, a beer gut, and a digestive system that under international treaty is counted as a biological weapon of mass destruction.
I always thought that Flatulent Charlie's wife was sweet, but there is no way that I wanted to attend her funeral. At most funerals, the widow or widower sits in the front pew and the lesser mourners sit behind them. The idea of spending an hour sitting behind Flatulent Charlie fills me with horror because Charlie is – to put it bluntly – very, very flatulent.
Even sitting at the back of the chapel would be no escape. Charlie's farts are legendary. He is the king of the SBD. They float in a heavy cloud around him. They linger, they lurk, they leap up and lung down your airways when you least expect them. I can't begin to describe what it's like to ride in an elevator with the man. A short trip from the second floor of the Toll Road Authority building to the first seems to last hours when you can't breath.
House plants wither and die when he walks by.
So do canaries.
I am sad to hear about his wife. Nevertheless, I think I'll just drop a card in the mail letting him know I'm sorry for his loss, and call it good.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
I got a message the other day from Bren, who I used to work with at the Toll Road Authority. She wanted to let me know that the wife of Flatulent Charlie had died in a car accident, in case I wanted to show my respects. Charlie was head of the Revenue Collections department at the Toll Road Authority when I worked there several years back. He is a crusty old grouch with white hair, a white moustache, a beer gut, and a digestive system that under international treaty is counted as a biological weapon of mass destruction.
I always thought that Flatulent Charlie's wife was sweet, but there is no way that I wanted to attend her funeral. At most funerals, the widow or widower sits in the front pew and the lesser mourners sit behind them. The idea of spending an hour sitting behind Flatulent Charlie fills me with horror because Charlie is – to put it bluntly – very, very flatulent.
Even sitting at the back of the chapel would be no escape. Charlie's farts are legendary. He is the king of the SBD. They float in a heavy cloud around him. They linger, they lurk, they leap up and lung down your airways when you least expect them. I can't begin to describe what it's like to ride in an elevator with the man. A short trip from the second floor of the Toll Road Authority building to the first seems to last hours when you can't breath.
House plants wither and die when he walks by.
So do canaries.
I am sad to hear about his wife. Nevertheless, I think I'll just drop a card in the mail letting him know I'm sorry for his loss, and call it good.
