Displaying results for "fart"
I settled into the toilet seat and positioned myself for the long haul… It was one of those mornings.
I exhaled with eager anticipation. I was excited for this for a few different reasons—most of which would be inappropriate to discuss here— but suffice it to say that it’s my opportunity to disengage from the world for a few minutes, not to mention the fact that I do some of my best thinking on the loo.
I begin to ponder some of the great questions of life—the vastness of the universe and my small place in it… Some pretty deep shit. Eventually, I find myself heading down the path to relaxed bliss.
Rather suddenly, the meditative silence was broken with a resounding fart.
It boomed. It echoed. It reverberated off the walls like nothing I had ever heard. This was the kind of fart that causes you to think philosophically about the wonder of the human body. Its longevity was remarkable. It was Taps in the bathroom. A call to attention. A funeral commemorating the death of workplace tact. While part of me was certainly curious, the toilet seat philosopher in me (who had just sat through an hour long meeting about screen savers) wondered, “Is it so much to ask to do this in peace? Five fucking minutes of detachment is all I want.”
Another intruder in my bubble; another loud rip from the opposite corner of the room, as if to remind me that no deep thinking is going to occur today. I sit there, defeated. People come and go and fail to flush the urinal (that’s right, you bitches—noted). Awkward conversation is being had between the stalls about ‘the game.’ That one guy is brushing his teeth and gargling and still singing. It’s all very intrusive and awful.
For five minutes every day I look forward to not being an analyst, or a writer, or a friend, or a brother, or a son. It’s time that is solely reserved for me. Because one man’s Feng Shui zen rock garden is another man’s bathroom stall, right? Why, when I etch out a post-espresso reprieve, does this otherwise barren restroom turn into an uptown 6 train after stopping at Grand Central Station?
Out of politeness I flush the empty toilet and walk out of the restroom with the understanding that, in spite of already being over-caffeinated, today’s detachment will just have to come from a trip to the coffee shop on 52nd Street.
I thrust open the window and slid into an agreeable corner of the couch, gazing at the twinkling lights of Midtown in the distance. The refreshing spring zephyr danced across my face, washing away the stressful chaos that comes with living in New York City. “Life is good,” I thought to myself, completely satisfied.
…and that’s when I farted.
And we’re not just talking any mundane old toot. This was a sound so shrill that even the old and nearly deaf Jewish bubbys on the Upper East Side cocked their heads and raised their painted eyebrows poignantly, as if to say, “Olé to you, good sir. Olé!”
After which, they resumed flogging the hired help.
I have a knack for ruining even the most picturesque of moments.