Flatulence Costs Jobs

One time I didn't even show up for a job interview.

Well, not strictly true. I showed up, but I left again. 

It was a warm summer day... June maybe? Hard to remember. Anyway, the place had one of those enormous spare lobbies of glass, granite, and leather. It was about 3 stories tall and had glass on two sides. The floor was light grey granite, and the couches were black, red, and white leather scattered around in some sort of pattern that only an art major would understand.

The receptionist sat behind a bastion of black granite against a light wood wall. Ash, probably. She was wearing a black sleeveless top and her hair was brushed into an arch that matched the grain of the wood on the wall. 

I'll bet that her makeup cost more than my entire interview suit, including shoes. When I walked up to stand before her, a mere mortal, she raised a cool perfect eyebrow.

"Gaasworks," I said (I didn't say Gaasworks, I said my real name). "I have an interview with Mr. N____ at 2:00."

Her lips, a dark breathless scarlet that was probably chosen to stand out against the rest of the muted tones (light wood, ash-blonde hair, black, pale creamy skin), parted.

"Have a seat. I'll tell him you're here."

I departed from before the goddess and chose white leather against the wall, near the doorway through which Mr. N_____ would have to appear. 

Now, I had taken some prophylactic Gas-X earlier, mostly in hope. Hope that it would suppress my flatulence long enough to get me through the interview. Things had been going swimmingly, as they say, up to this point, but as I sat down I felt an ominous intestinal rumble. I clenched tight and waited for it to subside.

It did not, and I was faced with a dilemma. The longer I waited, the more certain it was that the noxious substance would escape my sphincter during the interview, with predictable results. So I opted to attempt the Sneak. I stood and wandered the perimeter of the room, pretending to be interested in the plants outside, and then took a seat in the far corner, as far away from the icy throne of reception as I could get, where I once again sat down.

I slowly, slowly relaxed my quivering asshole, attempting to let the pressure out in little parcels.

Alas, it was not to be. The roiling Hindenbergian mass of gas in my colon burst forth with a loud fwaaaaaaap. The sound echoed and bounced off the leather under my ass and around the sterile room like an obnoxious banshee.

I hurriedly clamped my anus shut again, closing off the sound with a rising fweeeep of despair, but it was too late.  I picked up my briefcase, and walked out the door. The Reception Goddess didn't say a word, and neither did I. We both knew that I could not possibly walk past her every day having just done what I had done.

I skipped out before the stench reached my nostrils, but I'm guessing that within 30 seconds she was wishing that the windows in that lobby would open.