I eat foods that will give me pockety gas just so that I don't wander out into public without a few in the chamber.
I will crop dust the masses...
Like a climber, the methane in your fart conquers entire mountain ranges of noses and nostrils. Your ass particles windsurf in the air like bits of clear pollen for others to ingest, cuing an instinctive allergic reaction--the universal disdain for doo-doo aroma.
Indeed, the greatest thing about farting in a public setting is that the fart becomes an invisible participant--noses crinkle; furtive, accusatory glances dart from face to face; and everyone is a suspect, especially the overweight administrative assistant wearing a floral patterned blouse.
Hiding your grin as others subtly change their facial expression in momentary disgust reminds the public farter why they do what they do: for Victory, where its sweet smell is a bit soured, but nonetheless sweet.
Like a successful fugitive, your nameless fart remains a step in front of the human bloodhounds, who are sniffing in quiet protest.
I've laid gaseous pipe all over the globe.
I've somberly pffffed out a fart in mass at Notre Dame in Paris, wishing I could see it take flight, soaring high into the ancient rafters under the power of its warm rectal trajectory from the pews below.
I've excitedly eeked out an SBD in sporting arenas, wedding chapels, doctors' waiting rooms, oil change lobbies, funerals, pool parties (the famed "underwater smeller"), and in interviews (where there are normally just two of us daring the other to suspect).
But out of all the places in the world, the stakes for farting in public are highest in the cube farm. This is the X-Games of farting.
People fart all day long as they sit obediently in their cubicle, hammering out eight straight hours of work, surrounded by trained noses, the bounty hunters for cube farm flatulence.
When you initiate your farting sequence, the cubicle acts as a Dutch oven. It tries to detain the perfume of your fart as it ricochets off the three grayed walls around you, before it finally escapes out the back of the cubicle or over the top of the wall separating you from your cubemate.
And that is when the poop hits the fan.
Like college kids with newly minted credit cards, your coworkers start going nuts. Working in a cubicle emboldens people. Brash conjecture ensues.
Without mirrors or coke, people start sniffing neurotically. And unlike an outdoor public toot, there are no winds to muddle the geographical starting point of the smell.
But there is a wild card in cube farm farting: the unannounced visitor who arrives shortly after you've crop dusted your cubicle. They whisk into the small confines of your office cell, bringing with them outside air to swirl and aggravate the stale stench, speeding the atmospheric gestation of your fart.
And then everyone knows. You've been found out.
But it's getting away with it that really hooks you into passing gas in public. So you'll try again. Maybe in an hour. Maybe next week. But you'll try again.
The moral? Anyone can fart in public--and people do. But it is the thrill of taking it indoors that keeps me sharpening my A-game.
When I fart in the cube farm, I play for keeps.
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