Karma, it’s What’s for Breakfast

Remember, how I wasn’t sure if the asshat on the Metra was me?

Oh, my friends, I’m pretty sure now that it is.

I am the asshat.

David and I, like most people, are creatures of habit. So we pretty much sit in the same place on the train every day.

This particular spot is cushy. We like it. It suits us.

It also happens that a rather large lady sits near us every day, falls asleep, and proceeds to fart at the exact same point of the trip every day. Just the one fart. At the exact same spot, every day.

She has it down to a science and I have no idea how she did it.

So, earlier this week, David and I both miraculously and stupidly left our monthly train passes on the train. What asshats, right? Right.

Apparently we were also supposed to put our names on them in case we were stupid enough to leave them behind. Yeah, we didn’t do that. So basically they were gone. Close to $xxx was gone, poof, due to our tandem asshatery.

So we boarded the train the next morning hoping that the conductor had seen them and saved our tickets for us. No such luck.

Instead, a few minutes into our trip, I was tapped on the shoulder by a rather large, scientific farter.

Who held our tickets in her hand. She graciously handed them back to us and explained how sorry she was that she hadn’t been able to catch us yesterday to give them to us then.

Feeling like a total asshat for being annoyed by her farts when she was clearly a lovely woman, I resolved to start blaming the farts on someone else. It’s the least I could do to repay her.

That person is likely named David.