March 18th 9:30am - Bottom Blast

New Zealand's Prime Minister lives five houses away from the family I au-pair for. The newspaper the New Zealand Herald recently named a man the most powerful in Auckland. One quarter of the country's population lives in Auckland. The most powerful man in the city lives next door. I regularly pick up the two girls I au-pair for from St. Cuthbert's all-girls school with hair up, no make-up, wearing sandals and sweats. All the moms wear miniskirts, heels, and look like they daily get their hair professionally styled. I resemble a vagabond stalking little girls.
For the baby's christening, I shed my sweatpants and horse-harnessed myself in suitable clothes - one of the mom's dresses - and make-up. The christening guests included the country's leading medical professionals, politicians, and lawyers.
Ninety-nine percent of the guest list owned vacation homes and boats. My ninety-year-old eyesight can't distinguish between Target and Louis Vuitton, but I overheard words like Armani and Gucci as much as I had to sprint after young children screaming, "Noooo!" There were forty kids. New Zealand's elite spawn sociable,
pleasant little muffins. Put them in a forty-kid mob, and they devour my sanity.
Wiping faces, cuddling crying four-year-olds, requesting ice cream from the caterers, locating soccer balls, overseeing face-painting, and standing in Violet the Clown's balloon animal line for young children who lost interest in the line after six minutes equated no bathroom break for me.
These, coupled with my stealth ambushes of the beer supplies, equated a vulcanized pressure on my bladder and bowels. I needed to feed the toilet.
I tried to Merlin-relocate myself to the bathroom after I organized a twenty-kid soccer game. I was halfway up the grass-covered backyard hill when shouts, screams, and cries violated my eardrums. The ball was over the fence. Excreta clustered like a church congregation. I attempted a covert toilet retreat when the parents toasted the baby and its life. They mentioned my name in the salutation. I righted myself from dodge-the-aristocrats to smile and wave. Fecal matter blistered my rectum.
I put on a movie for the kids and endeavored subtle maneuvers towards the toilet under the guise of getting plates of food. When the grandma advanced towards me with a request to find her husband, I replied that I was compiling plates for the parents. Grandma told me that the caterers assembled their plates.
When the parents delivered a second address to the crowd thanking everyone for coming, shit fumes leaked from my butt. I strained for a cushioned fart, a concealed anal salute. However, what exuded from my pooper was a beer stutter fart. I looked around, smiling. The thirty refined individuals outlining me were too polite to glance over or comment. But, the two-year-old's height coincided with my ass, so he screamed, "Kara, you just farted!" People in Liberia heard.

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