On Confidence

Today an old man shuffled in where I work with his wife, also shuffling and shambling and wearing what was apparently an ill-fitted, red Rocawear t-shirt. They walked right up to a table, examined what was on it, and as I walked past the old man loudly farted.

My search for "grandpa shorts" was both unfruitful,
and disturbing. So here's a puppy instead.

Yeah, it's one of those posts.

After the requisite held breath and a mental, "Ew, Gross," my first thought was, "How comfortable that man must be in his existence."

I wish I was that comfortable with my life. I mean, not as flatulent, but comfortable. That guy knows exactly who he is and–through nirvana or a life of crushing hardship and agony–his exact place in the universal machine.

It then occurred to me that perhaps this man were partially deaf and had no idea how loudly he had just methaned all over the local area. Or he was incontinent. These are both distinctly possible. I don't think the latter, as we did not have the close the store and I surmise an adult undergarment would have muffled such a mighty toot.

Alright, he could have been deaf, though.