it also hurts when I laugh

There's this mentally retarded young woman I see around town frequently; she works at the grocery store I use most often and also at the Y, where I spend a fair amount of time trying to un-sag my kneecaps. I've never heard her speak; she's usually busy sweeping or mopping or folding laundry, her strawberry blond ponytail swinging as she moves.

Last week I was at the Y taking a class in that self-torture some call Pilates, and she was in the corner of the room folding and stacking yoga blankets. We were all lying on our backs, legs straight up in the air, doing a set of one of Pilates' five thousand variations of a crunch. All of a sudden, this woman said, in the most elegant British accent, "Somebody's farted! Is it you?" And she pointed to some poor woman's bottom at the front of the class, and said, "Yes, it is you!"

She sounded kind of like Terrance and Philip.

Of course we all started chuckling, which in my case--since I am new to Pilates and my abodmen was already so sore it screamed if anyone so much as looked at it--was pretty painful.