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Like everything in life, flatulence has a time and place. However, I never realized that at the wrong time, flatulence had enough power to alter your course in history. Well, it can if it’s the first date with the girl of your dreams.
It was thirty five years ago and I’d just been diagnosed with IBS. I had just bought a house and was living off bland food until the IBS settled. That’s when I met the girl of my dreams. She liked me. I liked her. Things were looking real good.
She picked me up in her Capri, and her pathetic attempt to win me over with a car totally worked. I’m not shallow, but I welcomed her fancy car as seen in ‘The Professionals, with open arms.
We arrived at the restaurant and we ordered food that I hadn’t eaten in months. I didn’t want to be a tight arse so we ate, drank, and I was well fed. Later we walked down the Barbican. Roberta surprised me by buying me a lighter with an anchor on. Was this love?
That’s when it happened. Gas strikes in two different ways – uncontrollable toots or sharp, shooting pains that feel a lot like dying. I thought I was dying. Not to make a scene, I told Roberta I suddenly wasn’t feeling well and probably needed to head home.
On the way home in her Capri, she tried to hold my hand and ask me lots of questions, but I wasn’t having any of it. The uncomfortable feeling was so bad it felt like I was being stabbed with a bunch of tiny forks. Then I realized …
My God, help me. I have a horrendous fart on deck. I’m in trouble. Big trouble. Could I stop myself from following through if it forced itself out.
HOW DO YOU TELL A WOMAN YOU JUST STARTED DATING, THAT THE REASON YOU ARE WRITHING IN DISCOMFORT IS BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO FART.
The more I held it in, the more pain would shoot through my stomach and down my legs. I was even having to raise myself off the seat, gripping on to the door and the dashboard.
“Seriously, you need to hurry – I’ve got cramps.” I managed to say through gritted teeth.
“Wow, it’s that bad? What’s wrong? Do I need to take you to hospital?”
Well, I could either tell her, or let the fart speak for itself.
People, hear me. There was nothing I could do. As impressive as I am with sphincter control, this was out of my hands. Slowly, it eeked out. The more I tried to stop it, the more it forced its way through the door. However, to my pleasant surprise, there was no sound. I sat silently, sweat beading my upper lip. Ok, maybe I got away with it. Maybe I’m home free. Then it hit me. Not an idea, a cloud. A horrific, fart cloud. Not in a, “am I smelling something?” sort of way. More like a “is someone dead and rotting in your trunk and am I in hell?” sort of way. modest items with plus size to wear of the wedding
Suddenly, I panicked. “Roll down the windows!” I screamed (yes, I literally screamed it like I was in a horror movie).
“What? Why?” Roberta asked, starting to freak out because I was freaking out.
“I can’t roll down the windows, unlock it! UNLOCK IT!”
“What’s going on?” Roberta yelled back to me, “Why are you …” then it hit her. I could see it in her eyes. Was it surprise? Horror? Water started to accumulate at the base of her eyelids, “Oh my God, I CAN TASTE IT!” she screamed.
“Roll down the windows!” As I screamed, the toots started to flood out uncontrollably. I scratched and clawed at the window like I was being kidnapped. Roberta, unable to see either by fart cloud or panic, kept turning on the windshield wipers instead of unlocking the window. The car was swerving violently
It was chaos. We were acting like we were under siege by gun fire. We were under siege alright, just not by gun fire.
Finally she was able to hit the right control and rolled down the windows. We both gulped in fresh air. I was horrified, yet happy to be alive, then remembered I just farted on the lady of my dreams, then sorta wished I was dead.
We sat silently for the rest of the way home. Although the shooting pains had subsided, I now desperately needed to use the bathroom, in an urgent, explosive kind of way.
She pulled up to my house and before she could come to a stop I had already jumped out, “Ok, thanks for tonight, sorry about the fart, love the lighter!” and ran in to my door like I was running from the cops.
I burst through my door and ran straight for the bathroom, where I was finally able to unleash and make noises that no one should ever, EVER, hear coming from another person.
Then I heard it. Roberta’s voice. Right. Outside. My. Bathroom. Door.
“You left your lighter in my car and your front door was open. Where do you want me to put it?”
“Get away from the door!” I yelled like a foghorn.
“Ok, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
*Parp* *toot* *splatter* *ungodly noise*
“I’m fine, Robbie – just leave the lighter on the table. I’ll call you later okay?”
“Okay, are you sure you’re …”
“I’m fine! Get away from the door!”
This woman! I mean, take a freakin’ hint!
Finally, I heard the front door shut, and the Capri engine zoom away. I thought that was the last I’d hear from her. I didn’t think it was possible to ever see a girl again after she screams she can taste your fart after only knowing you for 48 hours.
But, to my surprise, I did. A couple days later, actually. Now you probably think we’re married and she’s lying on the couch while I type this …...but after the third date I found out she was crap in the sack and I ditched her!!!