The Art of Farts

There it is, that awful build up of bubbles brewing in your lower abdomen. The sensation works its way south to the only possible exit, but you’re not alone. The explosion is eminent. If you don’t release the gaseous pressure, you will surely explode. You. Are. Not. Alone! How do you release your noisy stream of toxic air without alerting everyone else to your polluting actions?

The level of embarrassment is immeasurable. The choices on how to deal with the situation are impossible: retain the boiling bum breeze, and your face wears the strain of discomfort, or release the cacophony of tushy tooting, and suddenly your space is now infinitely too small. At some point you need to decide if pain powers over the pant platoon, or if you are going to find a way to sneak out a squeak and hope no one notices.

Maybe you’ll be lucky and the steamy air will silently fill your space. If you’re with more than one other person, every, one is “guilty” if no one admits to the toxic nasal tirade. On your own with someone, or worse, your silent explosion sounds more like a pantie parade and you’re going to have to own that trumpeting tune. What’s worse, is if the soundtrack is joined in with a stench that squelches the air out of the room, suffocating your people and leaving you fluorescently¬† flushed with embarrassment, while equally relieved of the gaseous demon residing in your bowels. At this point, you’re either going to have to own it with an “excuse me,” or hope that the floor consumes you before you are asphyxiated by your own ass gas.

Whatever your strategy is for finding freedom in flatulence, remember: everybody farts, and even the worst stink clouds are eventually forgotten.

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