The news that you can now purchase charcoal-enhanced underwear designed to filter your farts before they escape the confines of your clothing hit the Internet last week, causing ripples of smirking mirth to start circling around the globe.
Quite a few of my fellow Internet scribes were willing to print that link and let it go at that, but not this columnist. You may laugh, but that's because you are unwilling to empathize with the pain and embarrassment endured by heavy farters, particularly those who frequently take public transportation or long elevator rides.
These sufferers are tired of answering the age-old question "Who farted?" in the shamefaced affirmative and equally tired of attempting to blame innocent canines or faultless overweight people in the vicinity for the stenchiness of their personal methane by pointing at dogs or larger humans and crinkling up their noses.
My experience with these blameless but unpleasantly odiferous individuals has been limited to a short period when I had a co-worker who was known by the well-deserved nickname of Stinky Effer. He was a bodybuilder who credited his daily intake of raw foods and protein powders for the strength and diffusability of his farts, although there were ugly rumors steroids were involved as well.
If those rumors were untrue, this man could be said to be truly a natural wonder.
When he airmailed the rest of us a message from his colon, it had the same smell and effect as pepper spray, although people who had been pepper-sprayed, either by the police or their girlfriends, swore that the comparison was unfair to pepper spray. He was constantly enjoined by the rest of us to have surgery, or, by the faithful among us, an exorcism. We chipped in and bought him a lottery ticket every week, in the faint hope he would win and quit his job.
Stinky Intercourser also had a part-time gig as a Chippendale dancer, so it's hard to see how this new product would help him. You can't cover the offending aperture with much charcoal when you're wearing that kind of underwear.
It won't help me, either, because when I thicken the atmosphere, it doesn't smell. This is no exaggeration. My gaseous wastes can fairly be compared to brisk mountain air, or a mist on the meadow of a springtime morning. They are as olfactorily innocent as bay's breath or a bag of peppermints.
They are, however, somewhat loud, although not as loud as my Significant Other would have you believe, if you pursued this topic with her. Her descriptions of them as "echoing off the hills," "rattling the windowpanes" and "scorching the fur off the dog," are humorous exaggerations, although I personally don't think them very funny.
I do not try to offend anyone with my exceptional talent. When I sense my sphincter is about to rattle, I don't let it erupt and quip "Barking spider!" or "Who stepped on a duck?" like some guys do. I move to the powder room and set my interior bubble free in solitude. I cannot do this if I am asleep when the high-pressure system moves in, however, and the resulting nocturnal detonations are often loud enough to awaken me, my beloved and the dog, although not the neighbors, as she sometimes claims. Nor do they stir the Richter needle. That is another exaggeration.
It is true that they are worse on the weekends, but I blame that on my weekend diet, which is heavy on microbrews and frijoles.
So what I need is not underwear with a charcoal pad sewn in the lining, but a pair of pajamas with a muffler built in. If those are out there somewhere, someone send me a link.
Quite a few of my fellow Internet scribes were willing to print that link and let it go at that, but not this columnist. You may laugh, but that's because you are unwilling to empathize with the pain and embarrassment endured by heavy farters, particularly those who frequently take public transportation or long elevator rides.
These sufferers are tired of answering the age-old question "Who farted?" in the shamefaced affirmative and equally tired of attempting to blame innocent canines or faultless overweight people in the vicinity for the stenchiness of their personal methane by pointing at dogs or larger humans and crinkling up their noses.
My experience with these blameless but unpleasantly odiferous individuals has been limited to a short period when I had a co-worker who was known by the well-deserved nickname of Stinky Effer. He was a bodybuilder who credited his daily intake of raw foods and protein powders for the strength and diffusability of his farts, although there were ugly rumors steroids were involved as well.
If those rumors were untrue, this man could be said to be truly a natural wonder.
When he airmailed the rest of us a message from his colon, it had the same smell and effect as pepper spray, although people who had been pepper-sprayed, either by the police or their girlfriends, swore that the comparison was unfair to pepper spray. He was constantly enjoined by the rest of us to have surgery, or, by the faithful among us, an exorcism. We chipped in and bought him a lottery ticket every week, in the faint hope he would win and quit his job.
Stinky Intercourser also had a part-time gig as a Chippendale dancer, so it's hard to see how this new product would help him. You can't cover the offending aperture with much charcoal when you're wearing that kind of underwear.
It won't help me, either, because when I thicken the atmosphere, it doesn't smell. This is no exaggeration. My gaseous wastes can fairly be compared to brisk mountain air, or a mist on the meadow of a springtime morning. They are as olfactorily innocent as bay's breath or a bag of peppermints.
They are, however, somewhat loud, although not as loud as my Significant Other would have you believe, if you pursued this topic with her. Her descriptions of them as "echoing off the hills," "rattling the windowpanes" and "scorching the fur off the dog," are humorous exaggerations, although I personally don't think them very funny.
I do not try to offend anyone with my exceptional talent. When I sense my sphincter is about to rattle, I don't let it erupt and quip "Barking spider!" or "Who stepped on a duck?" like some guys do. I move to the powder room and set my interior bubble free in solitude. I cannot do this if I am asleep when the high-pressure system moves in, however, and the resulting nocturnal detonations are often loud enough to awaken me, my beloved and the dog, although not the neighbors, as she sometimes claims. Nor do they stir the Richter needle. That is another exaggeration.
It is true that they are worse on the weekends, but I blame that on my weekend diet, which is heavy on microbrews and frijoles.
So what I need is not underwear with a charcoal pad sewn in the lining, but a pair of pajamas with a muffler built in. If those are out there somewhere, someone send me a link.
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