Cloaking The Sound, Disguising The Fury
By Rick Paulas
Flatulence, according to the glorious Wikipedia, is the release of a mixture of gases known as “flatus” under pressure through the anus. More often than not, that release is accompanied by noise and odor.
Sound and fury, these are our enemies and the only distinguishing characteristics that stand between the necessary release of built-up pressure in our fragile stomach, and the unnecessarily cruel, but accurate, classification of being a “farter” or “one who farts”. Once you’re labeled as such, you might as well wave goodbye to intercourse with attractive women, lucrative promotions up the corporate ladder, and free candy from the motherly woman in Human Resources. Instead, get ready for a few decades of co-workers snickering behind your back, unexplained garnishing of your wages, and the horrendous luck of women you want to sleep with always having month-long periods.
Unfortunately – or, fortunately if you’re male and 15 years of age or younger – the release of flatulence is not a question of if but when. Sure, there are cases where you can position your body in a particular stretch or sitting style to hold off the release for a few minutes, giving you the opportunity to stroll to a desolate location. But those are not the situations that currently interest us. What we’re focused on is the heavily-clenched, sweat-dripping, stomach-speaking-in-devilish-tongues gaseous pressure that comes along every once in awhile. Like death, it’s heartless and definite.
The Sound!
While not as seemingly instantaneous as the speed of light, the speed of sound is still faster than a guy losing his virginity on prom night. (Am I right, ladies?) This means that the first indicator of the released flatulence is, in most cases, the hilarious whoopee-cushion sound of the anus. As such, it’s the first obstacle in disguising the fart.
What causes the sound is the expansion of your tighter-than-a-rubber-band anus opening up ever so slightly to allow the gas to pass. Since the opening is so tiny, the gas leaves under a large amount of strain, creating sound. For a visual aid demonstrating this concept – unles
s you have a mirror and a recently cleaned anus handy – I recommend stealing an unused balloon from your 5-year old cousin. (Note: If your cousin is out of balloons, take one of their condoms.) Now fill up the balloon and slowly let out the air by stretching the opening. Hear that high-pitched squealing sound? That’s your anus. Now try letting the hole open up on its own, stretching in a full circle instead of the sliver. When you do, the sound disappears when the air exits. This is due to the air having less pressure as it maneuvers out. If your sphincter happens to be blown open and stretched out from an overabundance of anal intercourse in your dirty, lurid, gerbil-laden past, then you’re in luck and won’t have to worry about cloaking the sound. But if you’re like most people, then you’re going to need some of the following assistance.
If you’re sitting down, it’s easy. Simply put all of your weight on one cheek and use it as a lever to spread the two open. If a sound somehow slips out while you’re sitting, simply blame it on the chair creaking. “Oh, how this chair desperately needs oil! Pronto!” On the other hand, if you’re standing things could get a little messier. If you’re wearing pants, simply put your hand in your back pocket to fish out your wallet. (If you don’t have a wallet, just mime it like you’re trying to get something; no one will know the difference.) As you’re doing so, use your outstretched non-thumb fingers to pull apart a lone cheek. This will allow the flatulence to pass unencumbered. The tricky part is the timing. To avoid suspicion, because you’ve had your hand near your ass for a long time while waiting for the flatulence to materialize, practice in the privacy of your own home.
If you’re standing and not wearing pants, you’re a woman. In that case, just shrug your shoulders, say “darn queefs,” and continue walking down the hallway. Hopefully the trail of stench won’t follow you, saving you from having to disguise the second noticeable characteristic of the flatulence: the odor.
The Fury!
With the sound cloaked, the “silent but deadly”
nature of the flatulence must be dealt with. First, you must sample the air. Unless you’re a gymnast or porn star in mid-piledriver position, odds are it’ll be tough to get in a stance where your nose is near your anus. Instead, I recommend the cupped-hand method of wafting the spoiled air up towards your face. To avoid detection, pretend you’re stretching, practicing a new handshake, or repeatedly feeling your beard growth.
If you’re lucky, the air will be uninfected. But if, perchance, you recently ate food imported from south of the border, you won’t get off so easily. In this case, it’s time to start the blame game.
If you’re in a group of people, scan the others to locate the first person who smelled such an atrocity. From here on out, you have two courses of action: (a) wait for them to outwardly acknowledge it and use the juvenile
“You Smelt It You Dealt It” rule to award ownership to that person; or (b) if the person is silent, crack a smile and mime a neck-cracking towards another person in the group. This will imply ownership on that poor soul, whom later you will make fun of, calling him “stinky pants” while laughing with great gusto.
On the other hand, if you’re in the worst case scenario (two people alone in a room), immediately blame the other person. “God, you’re disgusting! Don’t you have any shame?” Even though they didn’t do the deed, they will either feel embarrassed for the accusation and accept the blame, or claim it wasn’t theirs. If it’s the latter, the two of you will embark on a journey together, searching for the source of the smell. Perhaps it’s a dead body. Or maybe your great aunt.
When you return and the smell has dissipated, you’ll chalk it up to one of those great mysteries of the universe; or maybe a ghost. But in any case, your ass is clear of all charges and you’ll be able to continue your meaningless existence, eating all of the burritos and blocks of cheese that you want.
Flatulence, according to the glorious Wikipedia, is the release of a mixture of gases known as “flatus” under pressure through the anus. More often than not, that release is accompanied by noise and odor.
Sound and fury, these are our enemies and the only distinguishing characteristics that stand between the necessary release of built-up pressure in our fragile stomach, and the unnecessarily cruel, but accurate, classification of being a “farter” or “one who farts”. Once you’re labeled as such, you might as well wave goodbye to intercourse with attractive women, lucrative promotions up the corporate ladder, and free candy from the motherly woman in Human Resources. Instead, get ready for a few decades of co-workers snickering behind your back, unexplained garnishing of your wages, and the horrendous luck of women you want to sleep with always having month-long periods.
Unfortunately – or, fortunately if you’re male and 15 years of age or younger – the release of flatulence is not a question of if but when. Sure, there are cases where you can position your body in a particular stretch or sitting style to hold off the release for a few minutes, giving you the opportunity to stroll to a desolate location. But those are not the situations that currently interest us. What we’re focused on is the heavily-clenched, sweat-dripping, stomach-speaking-in-devilish-tongues gaseous pressure that comes along every once in awhile. Like death, it’s heartless and definite.
The Sound!
While not as seemingly instantaneous as the speed of light, the speed of sound is still faster than a guy losing his virginity on prom night. (Am I right, ladies?) This means that the first indicator of the released flatulence is, in most cases, the hilarious whoopee-cushion sound of the anus. As such, it’s the first obstacle in disguising the fart.
What causes the sound is the expansion of your tighter-than-a-rubber-band anus opening up ever so slightly to allow the gas to pass. Since the opening is so tiny, the gas leaves under a large amount of strain, creating sound. For a visual aid demonstrating this concept – unles
s you have a mirror and a recently cleaned anus handy – I recommend stealing an unused balloon from your 5-year old cousin. (Note: If your cousin is out of balloons, take one of their condoms.) Now fill up the balloon and slowly let out the air by stretching the opening. Hear that high-pitched squealing sound? That’s your anus. Now try letting the hole open up on its own, stretching in a full circle instead of the sliver. When you do, the sound disappears when the air exits. This is due to the air having less pressure as it maneuvers out. If your sphincter happens to be blown open and stretched out from an overabundance of anal intercourse in your dirty, lurid, gerbil-laden past, then you’re in luck and won’t have to worry about cloaking the sound. But if you’re like most people, then you’re going to need some of the following assistance.If you’re sitting down, it’s easy. Simply put all of your weight on one cheek and use it as a lever to spread the two open. If a sound somehow slips out while you’re sitting, simply blame it on the chair creaking. “Oh, how this chair desperately needs oil! Pronto!” On the other hand, if you’re standing things could get a little messier. If you’re wearing pants, simply put your hand in your back pocket to fish out your wallet. (If you don’t have a wallet, just mime it like you’re trying to get something; no one will know the difference.) As you’re doing so, use your outstretched non-thumb fingers to pull apart a lone cheek. This will allow the flatulence to pass unencumbered. The tricky part is the timing. To avoid suspicion, because you’ve had your hand near your ass for a long time while waiting for the flatulence to materialize, practice in the privacy of your own home.
If you’re standing and not wearing pants, you’re a woman. In that case, just shrug your shoulders, say “darn queefs,” and continue walking down the hallway. Hopefully the trail of stench won’t follow you, saving you from having to disguise the second noticeable characteristic of the flatulence: the odor.
The Fury!
With the sound cloaked, the “silent but deadly”
nature of the flatulence must be dealt with. First, you must sample the air. Unless you’re a gymnast or porn star in mid-piledriver position, odds are it’ll be tough to get in a stance where your nose is near your anus. Instead, I recommend the cupped-hand method of wafting the spoiled air up towards your face. To avoid detection, pretend you’re stretching, practicing a new handshake, or repeatedly feeling your beard growth.If you’re lucky, the air will be uninfected. But if, perchance, you recently ate food imported from south of the border, you won’t get off so easily. In this case, it’s time to start the blame game.
If you’re in a group of people, scan the others to locate the first person who smelled such an atrocity. From here on out, you have two courses of action: (a) wait for them to outwardly acknowledge it and use the juvenile
“You Smelt It You Dealt It” rule to award ownership to that person; or (b) if the person is silent, crack a smile and mime a neck-cracking towards another person in the group. This will imply ownership on that poor soul, whom later you will make fun of, calling him “stinky pants” while laughing with great gusto.On the other hand, if you’re in the worst case scenario (two people alone in a room), immediately blame the other person. “God, you’re disgusting! Don’t you have any shame?” Even though they didn’t do the deed, they will either feel embarrassed for the accusation and accept the blame, or claim it wasn’t theirs. If it’s the latter, the two of you will embark on a journey together, searching for the source of the smell. Perhaps it’s a dead body. Or maybe your great aunt.
When you return and the smell has dissipated, you’ll chalk it up to one of those great mysteries of the universe; or maybe a ghost. But in any case, your ass is clear of all charges and you’ll be able to continue your meaningless existence, eating all of the burritos and blocks of cheese that you want.
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