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I don't recall what I had been eating prior to such events, but twice in memory I was not only locked and loaded for shock and awe, but I was also riding a public bus!
On a moving bus there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. It is literally a target-rich environment, in which everyone still breathing gets a little. It's only a question of the number of open windows, the thread count of my shorts, the thermodynamic properties of my fart (measured in BTU's per cubic inch at standard ass temperature and pressure), and the apparent temperature of the exothermic exhaust against my sphinctronic nozzle. So, as my grandfather used to say: "Take deep breaths -- there's enough for everybody!"
Thus begins Episode I: The Phantom Anus. Turmoil has engulfed my lower intestinal tract as the processing of certain foods is in dispute. Hoping to resolve the matter with a blockade of stubborn turds, the difficult and uncooperative Digestive System has stopped all shipping to the small port of Button-hole. While unsuspecting passengers endlessly endure an otherwise dull bus ride, my ass has secretly dispatched two rancid assassination farts -- the bane of city transit's number twenty-six bus line -- to seal the fates of all on board.
I was on my way to high school one morning in early summer when out came my fart. It was all I could do to keep it clean and quiet. And thus my anus muttered a quiet "ba-fufffff... frawffffffffff." This deuce of bad boys was searing hot (for all I could tell they were wreathed in flame) and utterly putrid. The vileness was unparalleled. It was, without any doubt whatsoever, extremely objectionable. And oh-my-gosh did it have staying power! The cloud was colorless, of course; but I must say that if somehow it could have been assigned a color, it would surely have been dark acid green, or perhaps the color of chlorine gas.
Passengers' reactions were a thing to behold. I heard gasps of disgust. Mutters of discontent. The kill zone grew as, with the dispersal of the cloud to which I had just given birth, certain windows were thrown roughly open. In order to avert suspicion I played along, frowning, shaking my head a little, and throwing open my own window. By all odds, it would have been hard to say for sure who the perp was. The best part, however, was being rewarded with the sight of the face of a man who had just boarded the bus and was en route down the aisle to a seat somewhere behind me turn suddenly from a visage of calm into a scowl of disbelief and contempt, directed at no one in particular, or perhaps at everyone in general.
Fast-forward twelve years to Episode II: Attack of the Colons. There is unrest in my large intestines. Several thousand cc's of turdular fumes have declared their intention to leave the Digestive System. This bowel movement, under the leadership of the mysterious Count Dookie, has made it difficult for me to unload when no one is nearby, in my attempt to maintain peace and order around my wife. My ass, wanted in connection with the poisoning of several transit riders twelve years prior, has returned to the bus system to instigate another deadly round of Enjoy A Free Sample On Me.
I was returning home on the last leg of a six-hour journey consisting of a car ride, a ferry ride, and a long ride on city transit. When visiting the family for the weekend, my insides usually don't work all that well, and so things get a little backed up. When they got moving again, it was one round of nasty-ass butt-bombs after another. They were reasonably hot -- not the searing fire described above, but still well to the right of "warm." What made them special was that they were being manufactured and released at regular intervals. You know when you have a regular series of farts and then all of a sudden the time between farts increases dramatically but the smell and temperature gets exponentially worse? I was now at that point.
But before describing the fart that won the day, first let me explain the conditions in which I now found myself. A bus bound from the ferry terminal was carrying me, my wife, and several dozen other passengers and their stuff. It was summer, late at night, and there was a window open somewhere in the front and also somewhere in the back. Or perhaps the emergency exit hatches in the ceiling were cracked open -- either way, the effect was that there was a light, steady breeze of air from the front to the back of the bus. There was also no more room for anyone; my luggage was on my lap, my wife was seated next to me, and the aisle was full of people standing. Oh, and it was dark, too, except for a few lights on at the very back of the bus.
In that area at the very back of the bus sat a group of young teenage girls who had just reached the age where the mouth runs free but the brain has yet to be connected. A gaggle of teenage girls, brains in neutral, mouths redlining and the pedal jammed right through the firewall. I, my wife, the driver, and every single passenger on board were subjected to a continuous stream of statements that went something along the lines of, "Oh. My. God. Last weekend? My friend Becky? Shecallsmeandshe'slike, 'ohmygodyesterdayatthemall thisguywaslookingatmeandmy friendandmyfriendwaslike ohmygodandIwaslike ohmygodandwelookedateach otherandwewerelikeohmygod -- '"
At approximately eleven hundred hours, it seems that my brain received flash traffic from my ass that a lethal charge of sphinctrous sphinctride was locked and loaded. My next move was decided after the realization that no way would anyone know by whom this one was dealt. I was sitting with my wife on my left and the crowded, darkened aisle, with the slow breeze blowing down it, on my right; and so I lifted, ever so slightly, one side of my backside and performed the time-honored Right Cheek Sneak, loosing the compressed pocket of penultimate stench unto the huddled masses.
Perhaps due to the Venturi effect, the gas charge quickly entered the Intrabus Air Current and reconfigured itself from a tiny painful pocket of sour acid fume into a broad, miasmic fartstrosity. Riding the summer breeze (makes me feel fine / blowin' through the jasmine in my mind), it snaked its way through the legs and luggage of standees, up the back stairs, and onward until it met and infiltrated the nasal passages of the aforementioned council of prepubescent female philosophers expounding loudly on their experiences at the mall, on the phone, and at school. Then and there, t'was uttered a bold assertion, borne of wisdom beyond their years. Verily I say unto thee, truer words were never heard on that long bus ride: "Oh, my god, that's gross!"
On a moving bus there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. It is literally a target-rich environment, in which everyone still breathing gets a little. It's only a question of the number of open windows, the thread count of my shorts, the thermodynamic properties of my fart (measured in BTU's per cubic inch at standard ass temperature and pressure), and the apparent temperature of the exothermic exhaust against my sphinctronic nozzle. So, as my grandfather used to say: "Take deep breaths -- there's enough for everybody!"
Thus begins Episode I: The Phantom Anus. Turmoil has engulfed my lower intestinal tract as the processing of certain foods is in dispute. Hoping to resolve the matter with a blockade of stubborn turds, the difficult and uncooperative Digestive System has stopped all shipping to the small port of Button-hole. While unsuspecting passengers endlessly endure an otherwise dull bus ride, my ass has secretly dispatched two rancid assassination farts -- the bane of city transit's number twenty-six bus line -- to seal the fates of all on board.
I was on my way to high school one morning in early summer when out came my fart. It was all I could do to keep it clean and quiet. And thus my anus muttered a quiet "ba-fufffff... frawffffffffff." This deuce of bad boys was searing hot (for all I could tell they were wreathed in flame) and utterly putrid. The vileness was unparalleled. It was, without any doubt whatsoever, extremely objectionable. And oh-my-gosh did it have staying power! The cloud was colorless, of course; but I must say that if somehow it could have been assigned a color, it would surely have been dark acid green, or perhaps the color of chlorine gas.
Passengers' reactions were a thing to behold. I heard gasps of disgust. Mutters of discontent. The kill zone grew as, with the dispersal of the cloud to which I had just given birth, certain windows were thrown roughly open. In order to avert suspicion I played along, frowning, shaking my head a little, and throwing open my own window. By all odds, it would have been hard to say for sure who the perp was. The best part, however, was being rewarded with the sight of the face of a man who had just boarded the bus and was en route down the aisle to a seat somewhere behind me turn suddenly from a visage of calm into a scowl of disbelief and contempt, directed at no one in particular, or perhaps at everyone in general.
Fast-forward twelve years to Episode II: Attack of the Colons. There is unrest in my large intestines. Several thousand cc's of turdular fumes have declared their intention to leave the Digestive System. This bowel movement, under the leadership of the mysterious Count Dookie, has made it difficult for me to unload when no one is nearby, in my attempt to maintain peace and order around my wife. My ass, wanted in connection with the poisoning of several transit riders twelve years prior, has returned to the bus system to instigate another deadly round of Enjoy A Free Sample On Me.
I was returning home on the last leg of a six-hour journey consisting of a car ride, a ferry ride, and a long ride on city transit. When visiting the family for the weekend, my insides usually don't work all that well, and so things get a little backed up. When they got moving again, it was one round of nasty-ass butt-bombs after another. They were reasonably hot -- not the searing fire described above, but still well to the right of "warm." What made them special was that they were being manufactured and released at regular intervals. You know when you have a regular series of farts and then all of a sudden the time between farts increases dramatically but the smell and temperature gets exponentially worse? I was now at that point.
But before describing the fart that won the day, first let me explain the conditions in which I now found myself. A bus bound from the ferry terminal was carrying me, my wife, and several dozen other passengers and their stuff. It was summer, late at night, and there was a window open somewhere in the front and also somewhere in the back. Or perhaps the emergency exit hatches in the ceiling were cracked open -- either way, the effect was that there was a light, steady breeze of air from the front to the back of the bus. There was also no more room for anyone; my luggage was on my lap, my wife was seated next to me, and the aisle was full of people standing. Oh, and it was dark, too, except for a few lights on at the very back of the bus.
In that area at the very back of the bus sat a group of young teenage girls who had just reached the age where the mouth runs free but the brain has yet to be connected. A gaggle of teenage girls, brains in neutral, mouths redlining and the pedal jammed right through the firewall. I, my wife, the driver, and every single passenger on board were subjected to a continuous stream of statements that went something along the lines of, "Oh. My. God. Last weekend? My friend Becky? Shecallsmeandshe'slike, 'ohmygodyesterdayatthemall thisguywaslookingatmeandmy friendandmyfriendwaslike ohmygodandIwaslike ohmygodandwelookedateach otherandwewerelikeohmygod -- '"
At approximately eleven hundred hours, it seems that my brain received flash traffic from my ass that a lethal charge of sphinctrous sphinctride was locked and loaded. My next move was decided after the realization that no way would anyone know by whom this one was dealt. I was sitting with my wife on my left and the crowded, darkened aisle, with the slow breeze blowing down it, on my right; and so I lifted, ever so slightly, one side of my backside and performed the time-honored Right Cheek Sneak, loosing the compressed pocket of penultimate stench unto the huddled masses.
Perhaps due to the Venturi effect, the gas charge quickly entered the Intrabus Air Current and reconfigured itself from a tiny painful pocket of sour acid fume into a broad, miasmic fartstrosity. Riding the summer breeze (makes me feel fine / blowin' through the jasmine in my mind), it snaked its way through the legs and luggage of standees, up the back stairs, and onward until it met and infiltrated the nasal passages of the aforementioned council of prepubescent female philosophers expounding loudly on their experiences at the mall, on the phone, and at school. Then and there, t'was uttered a bold assertion, borne of wisdom beyond their years. Verily I say unto thee, truer words were never heard on that long bus ride: "Oh, my god, that's gross!"
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