How long do two people have to be married that when one of them passes gas (poots, farts) while in the same room as their partner that the other doesn’t even look in that direction? For me, that total is 3 years and 359 days.
This evening as I was watching a TiVo‘d program of VH1 Classic’s Classic Albums featuring Phil Collins‘ Face Value and The School Girl was getting to the end of The Bastard by one of my favorite authors, John Jakes, I felt the urge. You know, my stomach started to rumble and then I just had to…well…pass gas (taint the air, squeeze a barking spider, step on a duck). This is a natural thing of course, and we all do it, but usually my turns at passing gas (cutting the cheese, crop dusting) garner at least an ugly look by my wife. This time she didn’t even flinch. For some reason this made me think of two stories that relate directly to passing gas (pushing out an air turd, fluttering the sheets). One is my own and one is from my Pops.
My story begins innocently enough. I was working at the local branch of a major computer manufacturer over by the airport. The building over there is three floors. Those of us who, at that time, were in the sales department had been in the process of moving from the bottom floor to the top floor. Almost nobody worked on the second floor. At least I didn’t think anyone worked there.
One day I was riding the elevator from the top floor to the bottom floor. I had just stepped into the lift, alone mind you, when I felt that urge. I, being completely alone, weighed my options. I decided that if I passed gas (floated an air biscuit, ripped one) in the elevator I would be safer than if I waited to get out because there would be more people around. Besides, NO ONE ever gets on the elevator at the middle floor. So, I passed gas (ripped my pants, burned a hole in the ozone).
**DING**
The damned elevator stopped on the second floor. Two hot young ladies entered. They looked at each other with grim faces. I looked at the top of my shoes. As I walked out of the elevator on the bottom floor, I swear I heard snickering.
My favorite flatulence story is my Pops’ (sorry Pops but I have to tell this one). It takes place many years ago. My parents had generously taken me (and probably others) to a meal at Cracker Barrel, although I cannot remember if it was breakfast or not (man that really bugs me). The meal was completed and we were lingering, as all patrons do, in the store perusing the candies and Hank CDs and stuffed animals and dishes. Pops apparently had stepped into the bathroom to…well, use the bathroom, geez. All of a sudden we noticed that he was walking with a purpose and heading to the exit saying, “Hurry up, we gotta go, I’ll tell you later!” He seemed to have a slight smirk on his face.
We, of course, were extremely curious. The following scenario was described in the van:
Pops was standing at a urinal doing his business when he felt the urge to pass gas (rumble one, launch a wifter) but noticed that someone was using a stall. He decided to quell the urge as best as he could when all of a sudden an echo emanated from the toilet bowl beside him.
Obviously this now gave Pops free reign to let loose with the bowels of hell (oops, I mean, pass gas) which I am sure that he did because the little old man in the stall next to him uttered a single phrase. A phrase that made Pops leave the restaurant with an urgency:
“You win!”
Instead of dueling banjos, it was dueling farts.
Anyway, I figured that I needed to tell some fairly low brow stories today since…ahem, I AM NOW ON VACATION! I am not quite sure what that has to do with low brow stories but I just wanted to make that announcement.
LOL oh my God, “You win!” that’s hysterical. My Dad used to fart and then yell “California barking spider!”
Too funny! Why is farting still funny at this age? And I learned a few new euphemisms for passing gas!
OMG! That was hilarious. So, hilarious that I shared it with some of my co-workers…and yes, they were driven to tears because from laughing so hard. “Stepping on a duck” priceless!!