Monday, 21 February 2011
The other day I was visiting my girlfriend at school; she's got another semester left, and I just graduated. This means that I get to subject her with a semi-steady stream of "Let me know when you get your diploma" jokes, and it also functions as a tiebreaker for 50/50 arguments ("Babe, listen - not only did I Google it, but I am a college educated man, and you're just a co-ed. Now get back on your stomach.").
Anyway, I was giving her a ride to work in the morning. It was around 7:30 AM - much, much earlier than I prefer to be awake. I went into the bathroom to go through my morning routine. She was in her room doing her hair and getting ready for the day, putting her big girl pants on for work. It was right about then that our late-night hot wings and bleu cheese caught up with me.
From the bowels of my soul emerged a spectacular, heroic fart, the likes of which one has the good fortune of hearing once, maybe twice a decade. You know how Vin Deisel and friends jerked off to "ten-second cars" in The Fast and the Furious? For the everyman, we have ten-second farts. They're every bit as exciting, and not nearly as expensive. The conditions have to be just right for one of these to happen; they are often compared to total solar eclipses, blue whale sightings, and mammatus clouds. I was well rested. We had drunkenly gorged on food before falling asleep, and I could tell by my hair in the mirror that once I had fallen into the beer/food coma, my body literally hadn't moved for the next 8 hours. It was early, and the morning dew had the air nice and humid. Most importantly - even more important than the aforementioned wings - was the fact that I was urinating.
You see, when you have to worry during a fart, you can't focus. Remember when you tried to silently cut the provolone while taking the SAT's? Yeah, so does the girl sitting behind you, and she still blames you for not getting into Yale. When you're taking a wizz, you just let it ride. In most other situations, you don't have that freedom. Here's what I mean. I like to imagine a medium-sized crew of professionals in my abdomen going through a checklist whenever I consider farting, like the inside of a nuclear submarine in a movie.
Red lights are flashing, and alarm sounds are going off in the background. The scene is hectic; chaotic, even.
Commander - Private, I asked for the Piss Probability TEN SECONDS AGO!! I need a percentage, NOW! Johnson, what's our location and garment situation?
Private Johnson - Not good, sir! Light khaki pants, boxers are Fruit of the Loom whitey-tighteys! Location is Oh-Six-Niner, outside the bar, smoking a cigarette!
Commander - God dammit!! We're out in the FUCKING open! How much time we got??
Private Johnson - Twenty-two seconds, sir! Confirmation from the boys up top that our BAC is .18 and we're thinking about letting one go!
Private Wilheim - Piss Probability is in, sir! 64% chance of tinkle, 31% chance of stream, 12% chance of Golden Shower!
Commander - Fuck!! This is FUBAR!! Lieutenant, patch me through upstairs!
Scene shifts to inside The Brain. It is an office party setting; the mood is convivial, with employees engaged in song and dance. One guy with his tie wrapped around his head sees a blinking red phone and picks it up, a glass of eggnog in his other hand.
Brain Intern - A-yello?
Commander (screaming) - This is Commander Joseph, do not rip that fart!! We are exposed, ill-prepared and HEAVILY intoxicated!! I repeat, do NOT rip that fa-" *click*.
Brain Intern - Man, those guys need to lighten up. Johnny, hit me with another round!
None of that. When you're taking a piss, your mind is at ease. You're already contracting the muscles on the front side of your body; why not just squeeze your entire trunk? You can even call it an ab workout when you fill out your exercise log. The final product sounds like a '69 Pontiac GTO purring at a red light.
I could hear my girlfriends shrieks of horror from the other room, but hell, I'm in the bathroom anyway. If a man can't fart there, in his sanctum, can he really call himself a man? My father christens every new day by going into the bathroom at the ass-crack of dawn and showing the rooster who's boss. It sounds like a walrus yelling into the Lincoln tunnel. Do the acoustics of a solid marble toilet help? Sure, but I'm not docking any points from my scorecard.
When was your last epic fart?