There is a customer at Best Buy whom I call “The Farting Racist.”

Here is his story.

Ricky is assisting an older gentleman (he was 50, but 50 is like, ancient in a college town, like my God, how are you still STANDING), and they are discussing an album by Fort Minor.  I strut over to give my piece, because I am oh, so pompous when it comes to music.  Ricky leaves.  The guy was inquiring about the parental advisory, because he was buying the cd for his daughter.  I explained to him that it probably wasn’t that explicit, compared with, say, a good percentage of “gangsta rap.”  I asked him how old his daughter was.  EIGHTEEN, people.  His daughter was eighteen. “I don’t think you have to worry about your daughter hearing profanities.  For example, you don’t have to worry about her hearing the word ‘fuck,’ because she probably IS fucking, in your house, as we speak.”  Okay. I didn’t.  I said something like, “Oh, okay,” and disguised my disapproval with eardrum-piercingly-high intonation.  ”Is this a black group?” He asked.  I gave him a weird look, and told him they weren’t.

He decides against the Fort Minor cd.  Instead, he asks me to recommend an album that he would like.  I ask him what he digs.  He likes Sheryl Crow.  “Ah, so you like crap,” I said.  Okay. I didn’t.  He also likes KT Tunstall.  Okay.  So I pull out some classics - Jagged Little Pill, some Fiona Apple, whatever….then…

“You might really like this artist, Rachel Yamagata…”
“Oh, no. I don’t think so.”
“Don’t like what you’ve heard from her?”
“No, not if she’s one of those Orientals.”
“…Sir, did you just say ‘Oriental’?”
And I started laughing, out of pity, really, and he totally didn’t get it.

So I bring him over to the computer and log onto allmusic.com so he can listen to some samples of Alanis Morissette.  He kept farting.  Not audibly, mind you — motherfucking silent-but-deadlies.  I was dying.  “Is she a black singer?” He asked.  “NO! NO, SHE IS WHITE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” I said.  Okay. I didn’t.

Ricky informed me a couple days ago that the guy came in and bought the Christina Aguilera CD.  The first album.  [I barely own up to owning her sophomore effort.]  So when I saw him roaming the music aisles with no other associate nearby, I beared down and prepared for the worst.

“What have you heard about Cheyenne Kimball?” He said.
“I heard that it doesn’t matter,” I said.  “You are probably going to jerk off to the liner booklet pictures.”
Okay. I didn’t.