The Butcher's Secret

There is a smallish store in my town where I shop for groceries.  Smallish, in that it is big enough to have a decent selection of items, but not so big that you need a compass to find your way from the  soup to the cereal.  And being a regular customer affords me the pleasure of banter with some of the staff. 

Take the meat department for instance.  This is a cheerful group.  Raucous laughter is generally heard from the deli area.  The meat gang is slightly more restrained but typically jolly.  (Ever notice that the disposition of meat eaters leans to the convivial as opposed to the often gloomy manner of the vegan crowd?).

I home cook for my dogs and husband (omnivores all, but clearly flesh aficionados) so I am always on the lookout for good meat deals.  The butchers know me because I buy in bulk.  Today pork chops and chicken thighs are on sale.  As my favorite butcher wraps my order, I happen to notice a little note on the back wall near the time clock. 

It reads:  Bill's Blasting Zone A. 

I chuckle and ask if that is where Bill (my other favorite butcher) goes to fart. 

Yes, she says.  You would not believe the gaseousness of that guy! 

Bill is always friendly and pleasant.  Now I know why.  No pent up gas.  Ever notice how pent up people are usually not so very friendly or pleasant? 

Advice well worth putting into practice.  Let it rip.  But please confine your releases to the designated blasting zone.

Thank you and happy digestion to all!





**the name of the flatulent butcher has been changed to protect him from, well, fart jokes.  Enough is enough.  pfffft