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The Principle Of Rational Deniability
An infinite number of permutations exist for the placement of blame. Ultimately, however, in the grand scheme of universal order, there is but one. An odious fragrance currently emanates, violating all standards associated with breeding and good taste. Was it Ogden Nash who commented on these vagaries when he pointed out, ‘The smeller’s the feller’? Perhaps not, but the point is moot, especially when there are but two people on the elevator and one of them happens to be a woman whom you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting.
Oh, it’s possible that the noxious odor might have permeated my pores and found their way through some previously unknown biological pipeline from my colon to my skin, where they were released into the air, tiny missiles of methane smelling exactly like the porta-potty on a construction site; but, if common sense and my admittedly less-than-scholarly knowledge of human biology are allowed to see the light of day, I was not the issuing party. The old saying, ‘He who smelt it, dealt it’ definitely did not apply!
Not that this had any bearing on the situation. She was quite content to ignore me, save the defensive glower emanating from some deep part of her psyche that let me know she certainly didn’t do it, and how dare I cut the cheese on the elevator. Her sense of dignity demanded that she play her hand to the last bluff, her lone deuces prevailing over my royal flush of nescience.
Of course, there is no defense for this, given the societal demand for politeness and silence when in the presence of female strangers in confined quarters. I thought it a little unseemly of her, however, to inch her way to the extreme back of the elevator, evidently in an attempt to reinforce her innocence. I could have understood it were there other ladies present; they would have followed her lead and when the elevator doors opened, an observer would have witnessed them lock-stepping off the elevator, fanning the air in revulsion as I held the door open, armed with nothing but my mea culpa expression.
At one point, I was tempted to fight fire with fire, and under normal circumstances I would have had the arsenal necessary for engagement. In fact, had I made her acquaintance previously in any manner, no matter how peripheral, I would have granted her uxorial status and joined the battle. Today, I was simply no match for her firepower. My normally-vast reserves of ammunition were dangerously depleted, rendering me incapable of full-frontal assault or any sort of retaliatory response. Why do these situations always occur on days I skip lunch?
The ding of a bell preceded the opening of the doors. Fourteenth floor… her floor. The eternity between the sound and her egress provided us opportunity for non-verbal engagement. I fired a salvo of We’ll meet again, sister with my closed-mouth flash of a perfunctory smile. She pinned me down with the machine gun fire of her steely, laser-beam eyes and sent round after round of In your dreams, asshole… as she departed.
As the doors closed, I realized she’d left me yet another gift, and I hoped there was enough remaining oxygen to sustain life to the twentieth floor. Worse, the stylish young woman who’d just gotten on was staring at me and inching her way to the far back corner. It wasn’t me, I tell you… honest!
Aw, forget it… take your best shot. What did Ogden Nash know, anyway?
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