Senses Working Overtime

So I'm sitting in my office, searching online for some real good sheep porn, when the Boss comes in and asks me to bring something up to Alison in Accounting. And don't nobody have to ask me twice. Because Alison is smoking. En fuego. H to the O to the T. And other cliches as necessary. Many an afternoon I've spent glass-eyed in the back of a conference room, listening to her drone on and one about proper invoicing and receivables and blah blah blah as I try to mentally project myself into her brassiere. There's a reason guys don't mind getting up in the morning and coming to work at my office. And that reason's name is Alison.

So I jump up and say, "Yes. Yes, I will go see Alison in Accounting." And I take the folder and I step into the men's room to make sure my hair is just right and that my healthy Irish "package" is well represented against the fabric of my flat front khakis. And then I begin the ascent up to the third floor, trying to script an appropriate entrance. Something that says, "I'm a professional" and "Would you please kick my legs out from under me and straddle my face" all at once. But subtly.

And as I walk down the hall, closer and closer to Alison's office, I can feel my heart beating in my chest. My throat getting drier. My legs shuffling faster than the rest of my body. So I pause, collect myself, then turn and enter her office. And I see Alison sitting there, as radiant as ever, glancing up from her paperwork.

And that's when it hit me.

An effluvia so foul, so remarkably and heart-stoppingly pungent, it almost knocked my to the floor.

So I stifled a gasp and let my nervous gaze meet her nervous gaze and I quickly scanned her desk in the hopes I'd find an egg salad sandwich or, say, a dead animal. But there was nothing but yards and yards of paperwork. And all I hear in my mind is, "Dude, Alison totally ripped ass in here."

That's when my mind starts playing tricks. Like, "What if that was me? Did I just drag this horror into her office?!?" And I panic, and my face turns red, and she's every bit as embarrassed, and I'm not sure if it's because I've walked in after she let fly or if it's because it was me who did it and she feels bad for me. But it couldn't have been me, because I know I didn't fart, but somebody sure as hell did and for the love of Christ just let me get out of here before my hair falls out.

So I drop the folder on her desk and with a blurted, "This is from Candace," I shuffle out the door and run down the hall. And all I can think about is how Alison -- the goddess who has haunted my dreams since my first day at Company, Inc. -- will from this day forward be remembered as "the girl who farted."