I enter an elevator--with a couch--and an old miner follows me in. No, he probably wasn't actually a miner, but he looked like someone named "Cooky" and he's adamant there's gold in them thar hills.
Anyway, completely un-prompted, he tells the story of his buddy who works at the Smithsonian who has a pine cone that looks just like, in his words, "a turd." With great gusto, he recounted how his friend would put the pine cone in his pants while on his rounds, and then, in a crowd of people, grunt and shudder until the pine cone fell out of his pant leg.
Cooky thought this story was hilarious. My customer and I looked at each other as though the elevator opened to Wonderland, and I could tell he was also holding his breath. Whiskey fumes, I think it was, filled the elevator.
When the door opened we went our separate ways.
I don't think I'm going to the Smithsonian for awhile...