One afternoon, I was riding the bus, minding my own business, when a very elegant lady climbed aboard and took the empty seat beside me.
She was beautifully dressed, perfectly groomed, and wearing the most wonderful perfume I’d ever smelled.
The fragrance was so lovely that I couldn’t help noticing it.
After a few minutes of trying to work up the courage, I finally turned to her with a polite smile.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but that perfume you’re wearing smells absolutely amazing! Could you tell me what it’s called and where you bought it? I’d love to get some for my wife.”
The lady smiled, clearly pleased by the compliment.
“Why, thank you! It’s Chanel, and I bought it in Paris.”
I nodded appreciatively.
“Ah, Paris! Well, that explains it. Very classy indeed!”
We both smiled, and the bus continued along its route.
About ten minutes later, however, I began experiencing a rather uncomfortable situation.
A terrible pressure was building in my stomach.
I shifted in my seat, crossed my legs, and desperately hoped the feeling would pass.
But it only got worse.
Finally, when I thought nobody would notice, I carefully leaned to one side and quietly let out a little gas.
Unfortunately, the smell was anything but little.
Within seconds, the elegant lady’s smile disappeared. She wrinkled her nose, waved her hand in front of her face, and gasped in horror.
“Offf…what is this smell, my God”?
I said: “Garlic and I am from Gilroy, California.”
