I thought this would be common sense, but as soon as I hear myself utter the term “common sense” I instantly realize that common really means moron. I’m not an elitist. I don’t think I’m better than everyone else. I do think I’m better than some people. Go to www.peopleofwalmart.com and you’ll know what I mean. My goal in life… well it’s more of a mantra than a goal (what’s a mantra? I don’t know, what’s a mantra with you!)… is to not negatively impact anyone else, to not get in the way of their ability to do whatever they want. I expect the same in return.
So here’s the big guffuffel; Do Not Poot in the Elevator.
Before we go any further I’d like to point out the fact that I think the previous sentence may be my first use of a semicolon ever. I possibly even used it correctly.
Back to the matter at hand… brown air.
Today while taking my lovely 13 floor (OMG I just realized I work on a cursed floor. I work on the 11th floor, but there are 2 basement levels… so I’m actually on the 13th. An office on the 13th floor equals haunted + stupid. That’s a double whammy.), I was joined a few folks in the moderately nice confines of elevator #4. About 30 seconds after the doors closed, it happened. It was a bad one. I was looking at my blackberry when the all-too familiar percussive ripple of death fired off.
Burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt-twee
Instinctively (heh, I said “stink”), I blurted out, “Jesus, man!”.
Before you call me rude and/or insensitive, I will remind you that my 13 year old maturity level doesn’t know better. Frankly, that I didn’t point and laugh was a big surprise. After I said it, I did think for a second that that might not have been the nicest thing in the world to do in that situation. Then the offensive vapor hit me. No longer was I concerned with the tooter’s feelings or my maturity level. I was now concerned for survival.
The lady standing next to me died.
Maybe not, she collapsed… but “died” sounds more dramatic than “fell to the floor with an unknown prognosis”. Things got kinda fuzzy as the usable oxygen levels in the elevator plummeted. The door opened at the 6th floor and despite being five more floors from my destination, my inner combat soldier shouted, “Hit the beach!” And like a ranger at Omaha I did. I dove out of the elevator and crawled forward looking for cover. I heard shouting and looked behind me to see the elevator doors closing. It was too late for the rest of them. They’d had it. I crawled forward again, just in case something leaked out of the elevator shaft. I stayed low. Just like in the safety videos. Granted, it was fire safety, but deadly vapor is deadly vapor.
After what seemed like a minute or so, I was out of the vicinity of the elevator bays.
“Can I help you?”
It seems I’d crawled into the lobby of a random office. I looked up and saw a puzzled receptionist with a finger poised over the “security” button on her phone. I stood up. Grateful to be alive and away from the smell.
“Are you ok?”
I thought about the question. I thought back to the lady with the unknown prognosis. I thought about the people that never got out.
“No. No, I’m not ok.”, I replied sternly as I walked out and headed for the stairs.
Why did he have to poot in the elevator? Was he confused? I don’t know. Elevators are small and have doors like a bathroom stall, but I’d think the lack of a toilet and sink would clue him in. Maybe he was ill. He didn’t look ill. Maybe he’s one of those sick freaks that thinks that’s funny. Maybe he’s the guy who has been making stinky in the elevator just as he gets off and leaving it for me as I get in. That’s gross, but even worse is when that happens and another rider joins on the way down and thinks it was me because I’m the only one in the elevator. I usually counter that by shouting loudly “It wasn’t me!” as soon as the doors open. The response is usually the same.
“What wasn’t… aww!”
People, please. Stop making brown air in the elevators. Please. I’ll even pay a no brown air tax.
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BAHAHAhahahahaa!!! P.U.