A lady walks into Tiffany's. She looks around, spots a beautiful diamond bracelet, and walks over to inspect it. As she bends over to look more closely, she lets out a fart.
Very embarrassed, she looks around nervously to see if anyone has noticed her little accident and prays that a sales person doesn't pop up right now.
As she turns around, her worst nightmare materializes in the form of a salesman standing right behind her. Cool as a cucumber, he displays all of the qualities one would expect of a professional salesman in a store like Tiffany's, and greets the lady with, "Good day, Madam. How may we help you today?"
Feeling uncomfortable, but still hoping that the salesman may not have been there at the time of her little "accident," she asks, "Sir, what is the price of this lovely bracelet?"
He answers, "Madam, if you farted just looking at it, you're going to shit when I tell you the price!"
This looks like a joke, but isn't. It's the floor of my office, the only place I have to put all the stuff that's piled on me. I have a desk, a bookcase (filled with somebody else's junk), a cart my printer sets on, a spare chair, and a narrow, glass-front cabinet that I open as seldom as possible because it'll topple over on me if I'm not careful. Am I living the high life or what?