Editor's Note: Not a fan of fart jokes? Skip this post.
When I'm at home, I'm not shy about the noises my body makes. I'm of the mindset that there is more room on the outside, so why keep the various gasses trapped inside? I don't run to the bathroom to pass gas (unless its been a odorous day), but I'm not a pig about it. If we've got company over or if The Boss and I are having a nice meal, I mind my manners. The same rule applies when I'm at work.
If I'm in the men's room at work and I've got to break wind, I only do it if I'm the only one in there. I don't want to be known as the guy who fogged up the bathroom, especially if the owner of the shoes behind stall number two belongs to one of the managers in the building. If I come into the bathroom with a fart locked and loaded and there are other guys in there, I keep it to myself.
Sometimes, though, nature has its own way.
I entered the men's room this past Saturday to squeeze the lemon. I was standing there at the urinal, taking care of business, when I felt a fart creep up on me. It was a strong one, and I found myself faced with two choices. I could tighten up, thus stopping the flow mid-stream, or I could open the gates and release the kracken. I hadn't checked when I came in to see if the bathroom was vacant or not, and from my vantage point there was no way I could tell. Stopping mid-stream didn't seem like a safe choice, and the bathroom was quiet, so I let things go and hoped for the best.
As it would turn out, this was no ordinary fart. It was a ten-second, multiple personality fart. It was like a well-rounded college student, fluent in many different languages. Squeaky, bullhorn, crackly, edgy. I was completely subject to the wills of this beast, and when it was over, I felt short of breath enough to wonder if there had been some sort of vacuum effect at play.
There was a heavy silence in the bathroom for a few seconds. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I was in the clear. I was foolish to think so. From the handicap stall down at the far end of the bathroom came a slow clap.
"Dude," said the occupant of the stall, thunderstruck. "That was epic!" His clapping intensified, echoing off the tiled walls of the bathroom.
I gave no response. I just zipped up, washed up, and got out of there as fast as I could.
Oh, well. If I'm going to be known as a workplace bathroom farter, I might as well be at the top of my game.
Happy Monday, folks.