Gas Attack

Stopped by a cafe recently to partake of some cafe type fare – y’know, brioche, tiramisu, mousaka, that type of stuff. Oh who am I kidding? I got a diet soda.

Anyway… I noticed that the receipt had at the top a descriptive term that bordered on the negative. I’ve heard of this. It seems to happen every now and again – somebody complains that a restaurant used an offensive term to refer to them on the receipt. Often it’s some slur pertaining to the customer’s race or physicality and they get to raise a stink on social media and have people chastise the business and swell their ego by proxy. I didn’t want to be one of those guys but there it was, printed in black and white, a rather unpleasant phrase that had obviously been written at my expense: Farty One. Seriously – Farty One.


What the hell, I wondered as I exited in a huff. What had I done to invoke the wrath of this minimum wage slacker, to provoke their ridiculous vengeance in such a mild yet pernicious manner with this strangely bothersome epithet? And to accuse me of being, shall we say, gassy in excess … whatwhyhowwhenhuh? My interaction with the cashier had been brief at best, friendly in the extreme and so non-malodorous that I was entirely flummoxed by the experience. So. What. The. Hell?

Then I noticed the line of faded ink running down the middle of the receipt. Right through the F in Farty, which I suddenly realized was a P. Party One. Not an insult regarding my flatulent nature. Simply a placeholder entered into the system to represent the patron in the abstract. Nothing to do with me.

I felt so embarrassed I instantly regretted angrily cropdusting the cafe staff with an SBD as I had exited.


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