Thursday, March 26, 2009

A Light Windy Note

Might have been my grade school class.

That would be me -- the buffoon, peeking around the corner, while everyone else is on their angelic best behavior.

I could never get along in Foster A. Begg Jr High, though I tried to behave myself. I was a good kid at heart, basically. Twas my innards that done me in, mostly.

One Day -- one fine day. Nice stories start out with that starting. Not this one.

This day would live forever in infamy. Fifth-graders still shudder to recall the horror.

We had to attend class all day with the regular arts-and-crafts teacher, because our home room teacher, Mr Wade was absent,I think he took an impromptu jaunt to Mexico with some disreputable bimbo. Mr Wade was a bachelor, entitled to his habits, not subject to the judgement or scrutiny of fifth-graders or their nosy mothers. He used to slam a convenient book loudly and shout "QUIET!!" to regain control in the class when he felt things getting out of hand, but we really got along well. One problem I had that got a start in his class was reading porn, but I digress.

So, the arts-and-crafts teacher, Mrs. Anderson I think was her name, had decided we should compose and recite creative writing stories, and that was something really engaging to me, I enjoyed it, which turned out to be my downfall. You see, also that day, there was churning away in my gut, a manic little engine generating what my little nephew Jared soberly referred to as "flatulating".

I suppressed the output for as long as I could stand, then began practicing what I would later come to recognize as "stealth" technique for relief, relaxing the sphincter control just gradually enough to allow a bit of gas to pass, but not enough to make that disturbing noise in the quietly and studiously working class.

Well, it seemed to be working. The emissions were not so stinky as to be flagrantly offensive or readily zoned in on and identified as to the originating culprit, so my "stealth" technique seemed to be working, at least for a while.

Then the writing part of the exercise was over, and it was time to read some of our best work. All the teachers little pests, er, pets raised their hands for a turn, while I cowered next to a boy named Billy whom every gave sidelong glances at as they brushed by our row. Part of my "stealth" strategy was that Billy had a reputation for a smelly BO like sour milk odor. He didn't, it just so happens, that day, but it worked into my stratagem either way.

But my plan met with disaster. An interminable hour later, we were still squirming our butts on those hard flat wooden desk chairs, and my "stealth" plan was not providing sufficient output for relief.

I finally reached the breaking point, in a cold sweat, where I could suppress no more. I was desperate and near fainting from holding back the tremendous pressure.

A tall, willowy shy girl named Sharon was fated to be reciting her composition as the countdown to liftoff approached. Little did we know that our lives would be forever changed at one dramatic moment.

Then I knew, all at once, I could no longer stand it. I slowly began easing myself up off the flat chair bottom just a fraction, not realizing the effect it would have but soon to learn.

Then -- release...


My tremendous flatulence reverberated and filled the room. For what seemed eternal, it rang though the air like old Notre Dome's bells. It pealed out so long and loud and clear, I paled at the sound. The thin wooden panel of the seat of the chair served as sounding board, it seems. I’ve had a fascination with the mechanics of exactly how the works in acoustical instruments function, ever since.

Anyway, I digress. My farting ripped a hole through the fabric of the class. Poor dear Sharon was reduced to nervous tears and crying, and Mrs. A. comforted her and sent her off to the nurses office. She turned on the remaining class and delivered a stern lecture about how crude and rude that was, after the room was evacuated and air for fifteen minutes.

Mrs. A. then demanded that the culprit confess his sin and report to Mr. Russell's office immediately. Deathly silence.

When none owned up, she tacked on a different jib and said that individual must be sick that could be capable of such a thing, and should go to see the nurse right away. No one still spoke up.

I hung my head, but fortunate for me, every suspicion was cast on poor stinking Billy, whom I think could not help his naturally stinky character. He was just a natural-born weasel.

Just as I was born to be a big gas bag, and fart freely without restraint.

Please don't take offense if I should spoil the air, passing gas. If it is objectionable to you (and it could hardly be pleasant) let us step aside and let the air clear, then we can continue conversation, as mature adults.

(silly childish giggles)


Anonymous said...

Frankly, I've always known you were full of hot air.

Jim Cobabe said...


I am surprized you express yourself with such circumspection. Indeed, I am the worst person I know, and in far more offensive more qualities than eructation and flatulence.

I'll always keep trying to do better.

Anonymous said...

There you go again - hot air!