|Scenes From a Men's Room or, Farting Is Such Sweet Sorrow
||[Jan. 27th, 2004|07:37 pm]
|||||The Pogues: Rum, Sodomy and the Lash||]|
My big brother (well, half-brother, by my mother's first marriage) is now more than 50 years old and still thinks that pretending to fart at the dinner table is High Humour; my 13-year niece has as her email address a riff on the idea of passing gas.
My father does - and always has (or, at least, so long as I have known him) hated fart jokes or similar "gross" humour (as do I, most of the time).
He paid me a surprise visit yesterday, blowing into town to pay court to an old flame, among other things. Though he doesn't drink as once he did ("I'm just not interested anymore," he said half-way through his second and final beer), we had a good time and he spent the night, then drove me to work this morning.
The January issue of Harper's clutched tight in my left hand, I unzipped my pants with my right and took my cock in hand, unclenched my bladder and let fly a spray, returning to when it had come the better part of several pints.
The Men's Room at Mezzro's is small: one sink, one urinal, one toilet and stall.
When I heard the door open behind me, I thrust myself towards the porcelain fount, and the door barely nudged my buttocks. Urine begining to spatter the drain, the door to the stall on my right opened, then closed.
All out once, like a slow bolt of lightning, a strong, manly expectoration of various gasses, an admixture of beans and beer, let rip (I burped).
From the stall on my left came a chuckle, as his his stream began to harmonize with my own.
"Hey!" I called out, in my best imitation of a basso profundo, "no smart remarks from the peanut gallery!"
My unseen compatriot laughed again. "That's what I'm here for," he said as his stream clattered like hard rain into the pool between his equally invisible legs.
I was about to reply - my mouth opening, a witty retort (no doubt) on the tip of my tongue - when to my surprise (and his), my anus spoke first. A guttural, inarticulate burst of noise, methane and other sundry greenhouse gasses.
Beyond the walls of the stall, my unsee compatriot laughed again, and so did I.
I shook myself dry and zipped myself up. "My father would hate this," I said, "He always said scatology was the lowest form of humour."
And with that I hied myself from our tiny sanctuary and surprised myself by ordering a fourth pint of Steamwhistle.
On a day like this, I have no doubt that those among you fervently praying
that global warming is real will thank me.