Every guy worth his salt has good fart stories. The Gentlemen of the species don't share them. Then there's me.
I've been holding this story back for a couple of weeks to protect the innocent, but it's brought me so many chuckles I have to share.
The other night I was out with a group of guys. We rode in a mini-van from the concert to the bar (yes, a mini-van). In the van, my fart-o-meter pegged out, and I knew I would soon reach maximum effervescence. I'd had several Guinesses, however, and I was pretty sure that if I cut one in the van people would die.
When we arrived at the bar I happily honked and tooted all the way across the parking lot, confident that the fresh New England air was enough to vent the area. Crop dusting a parking lot during a bachelor party is perfectly acceptible behavior in almost all cultures. Unfortunately, however, the New England air did such a good job of venting the afterburner that I had no idea how truly foul an odor I was dealing with.
When we got into the bar, it turns out I had one last salvo to fire, so I did. Boy was that a bad move.
Had I let that go near the stage, I suspect several dancers would have quit on the spot. We're talking paint-peeling eye-watering oh-my-god-what-is-that-smell rankness and lots of it. My poor bachelor party friends backed away from the bar as one, probably thinking that there was a decomposing body back there or something. One of the guys, who we'll call Tony, had been standing near ground zero and I thought he might faint. His eyes literally watered, and he had to cover his nose with his shirt, at which point he uttered one of my favorite lines on all time:
"Oh wow, THAT is just socially irresponsible."