Hydrogen Sulfide at Tiffany's

A woman of the geriatric persuasion walks into Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue.

She browses in a leisurely fashion until she suddenly sees a stunning diamond bracelet. Its beauty and craftsmanship take her breath away as she bends over the display case—whereupon she inadvertently breaks wind.

Mortified, she immediately glances around the shop interior to see if anyone has noticed her accident. She utters a silent prayer that a salesperson won’t appear for the next olfactorially-critical moments.

As she turns around, her worst nightmare materializes in the form of a salesman standing right next to her.

The compleat professional, not even remotely ruffled, the sales consultant greets the woman in the clipped tones of a Noel Coward which, as a white male back in England, would have him deported.

"Good day, Madam. And how may we be of service this morning?” he smoothly inquires.

Suddenly hopeful that no one witnessed the accidental gastrotoxicity after all, the woman tentatively ventures into normal commercial discourse as if nothing had happened.

“Sir, what is the price of this exquisite bracelet?"

He clears his throat slightly with head in hand, staring down at the bracelet in the display case for several moments.

Then, finally, looking up at the customer he replies.

"Madam, I’m teddibly sorry, " he says with true mourning in his voice. "But in all due deference to the other customers—if one farted just looking at it, one would positively shit when one heard the price.”