Kevin's Watch

Phantasm wrote:At the World Cup in France (Soccer - 1998), I'd been drinking , heavily , for 3 weeks, and had arranged to meet a young lady (now my wife) I had met on my first day in Paris.
She was working during the day, so I thought I'd do a little window shopping to pass the time, so I pop into Galleries lafayette, which is one of the more prestigious shopping centres in Paris.
Of course I'm wearing a kilt (no underwear), and as I'm wandering through the shopping centre, I feel an irresistable urge to fart. (remember, I'd been drinking for 3 weeks solid) However, when I let one rip, it's not methane that's released, and as I look down, there is a small steaming runny turd on the floor. Luckily, none of it hits me or my kilt, and I walk off into the distance and find the nearest toilet to ensure there's no residue clinging on (if you know what I mean).
That in itself wasn't that embarrasing, as no one saw what happened (I hope), but when my wife found out about it a few years later,that was embarasing, and when she told her parents about it that was even more embarassing.

On the slim chance that the cleaner who cleaned that up is reading this, please accept my unreserved apology.

Phantasm wrote:At the World Cup in France (Soccer - 1998), I'd been drinking , heavily , for 3 weeks, and had arranged to meet a young lady (now my wife) I had met on my first day in Paris.
She was working during the day, so I thought I'd do a little window shopping to pass the time, so I pop into Galleries lafayette, which is one of the more prestigious shopping centres in Paris.
Of course I'm wearing a kilt (no underwear), and as I'm wandering through the shopping centre, I feel an irresistable urge to fart. (remember, I'd been drinking for 3 weeks solid) However, when I let one rip, it's not methane that's released, and as I look down, there is a small steaming runny turd on the floor. Luckily, none of it hits me or my kilt, and I walk off into the distance and find the nearest toilet to ensure there's no residue clinging on (if you know what I mean).
That in itself wasn't that embarrasing, as no one saw what happened (I hope), but when my wife found out about it a few years later,that was embarasing, and when she told her parents about it that was even more embarassing.

On the slim chance that the cleaner who cleaned that up is reading this, please accept my unreserved apology.

Phantasm wrote:At the World Cup in France (Soccer - 1998), I'd been drinking , heavily , for 3 weeks, and had arranged to meet a young lady (now my wife) I had met on my first day in Paris.
She was working during the day, so I thought I'd do a little window shopping to pass the time, so I pop into Galleries lafayette, which is one of the more prestigious shopping centres in Paris.
Of course I'm wearing a kilt (no underwear), and as I'm wandering through the shopping centre, I feel an irresistable urge to fart. (remember, I'd been drinking for 3 weeks solid) However, when I let one rip, it's not methane that's released, and as I look down, there is a small steaming runny turd on the floor. Luckily, none of it hits me or my kilt, and I walk off into the distance and find the nearest toilet to ensure there's no residue clinging on (if you know what I mean).
That in itself wasn't that embarrasing, as no one saw what happened (I hope), but when my wife found out about it a few years later,that was embarasing, and when she told her parents about it that was even more embarassing.

On the slim chance that the cleaner who cleaned that up is reading this, please accept my unreserved apology.