The five of us departed the bus in Likir, I with the grace of a tranquilized flamingo. I wobbled with my waterbottles and backpack and bucked into dirt dregs. My astoundingly bad balance constantly confuses me, as I have American football defensive lineman legs. In seventh grade, my thirteen-year-old acne-afflicted male infatuation referred to me as "Kankles," and "Thunder Thighs."
Ladakh's arid desert orbited like the obstinate ocean. Reverberating sand dunes stretched, and in the horizon, a snow-spiked mountain range amiably reared. Our guesthouse overlooked the golden Buddha of Likir's Gompa. The bathroom window viewed the Buddha as superbly as if Siddhartha himself had stipulated where to shit.
It was in this seated ecstasy, the hostess' happiness and her family dominion, that Wrist Breaker Wanker let loose a lethal fart.
Her nose crumpled at the rectum roar's stench. Tears gathered as she struggled not to catapult the tray and careen from the room roaring like a wounded lion. The Brit's poop fumes were so repellant that he did the only thing he could do.
"I am so sorry. The smell... I'm just sorry. I'm... uh... having stomach problems," he said, as serious as global warming.
Her response: "Wear a sweater. Stay warm."
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