As a man, I’m often given to bouts of flatulence. All creatures pass gas, and I am no exception.
Passing gas is proof positive that the body is working properly, breaking down the food we intake, metabolizing it, keeping the stuff we need to generate energy, and disposing of the by-products.
Notwithstanding the fact that it’s a natural process, it’s generally frowned upon in certain settings. Flatulating in public, faux pas. Flatulating in private, not so bad.
Passing gas on a crowded subway or other means of public transportation, for example, is a gross breach of the public trust, and should be punishable by public lashing (or some equally distasteful public shaming).
Passing gas in private, however, is a different story. Case in point, passing gas with your boys, is usually a jovial experience. In fact, when you’re with your boys, the louder and stinkier the better.
However, with women, passing gas is something you must cultivate. Your ability to fart (in their presence) really depends upon what stage of the relationship you’re at.
If you’re dating, for instance, then suppress those stink bombs at all costs. There is nothing worse than passing gas when you’re being intimate. A fart is a sure way to dry thinks up quickly.
But this won’t always be the case. Once you get to know a woman, test the waters, pass an SBD while you’re watching a movie and see what happens.
Depending upon her reaction, you may have to initially deny it with every sinew in your body and the conviction of one (genuinely innocent) wrongly accused of a heinous crime.
Invariably (and with time), once you own up to it, she’ll tell you how disgusting you are, and her love for you will allow this offense to pass, without jeopardizing your future together.
After almost 10 years of marriage, I speak these words as truth. I am a flatulator. Make no mistake about it. Some are loud, others silent. Some slip out, others are forced out with authority. Some squeak, some whine, others bellow, but I own them all.
I realized that my wife’s love for me would withstand the test of time, one evening after we had a serious soul food dinner. Collard greens, black eye peas, fried chicken – the stuff of flatulation nightmares.
We were nestled in our bed headed off to la-la land when it happened – I passed the most sinister SBD gas beast. I knew the minute it passed the exit only sign, that there would be trouble. There was nothing I could do but wait and see.
Hopefully, she was already deep in REM sleep, and this gross nocturnal breach of civility would pass unnoticed, or as some distasteful smell-track to an unpleasant dream.
But twas not to be…
Chanel: STEPHEN! I guess she’s not asleep.
Me: What happened? Feign ignorance, Stephen, it’s the only way!
Chanel: Oh my God! Did something crawl up in you and die? Perhaps?
Me: You sure that wasn’t you? Nice one. Turn the tables. Who’s to say she wasn’t stinking up the place her damn self?
Chanel: Oh come on! You know you did it! True. In nine years of marriage, I’ve never smelled her fart.
Me: Something I ate doesn’t agree with me. That’s right. Keep your cool. Like the stink bomb, this too, will pass.
Chanel: You are so nasty! But you love me anyway, so who’s really the nasty one here, huh?
Me: Gimme a kiss and go back to bed. The next one will smell like lavender. The next one might actually be an actual poop. Maybe I should go to the bathroom.
Chanel: You are a fool. Good night stinky man.
Me: Good night Mrs. Stinky. All’s well that ends well.
Lesson? I have no idea, I just wanted to share a fart story.