Looking through some old papers, I happened across an old phone number for an old girlfriend. I haven't seen her in years, if it was any other number I might have been curious as to what she was doing now and whether or not she was still hot, not this time. Upon seeing the name and number the first thing that came to mind was " I wonder if she's farted yet?". I dated the woman in question for over two years, not because there was love or she was a great human I couldn't live without, frankly she had a personality so bad Gandhi and Mother Theresa would have drawn straws to see who got to punch her. I stayed around her because one night about three months into the relationship, three months or so is usually the time when the new car smell wears off and you start to be yourself, your true self. Anyway, on that fateful night I forget what I had eaten that day but by the time we were ready to hit the sack, my stomach was making so much noise it sounded like the soundtrack for Wild Kingdom, I half expected Marlin Perkins to walk in any minute. I could feel the pressure building as we kissed each other good night and I rolled over on my stomach to go to sleep. The pressure shifted and out it came. It was powerful enough that I remember the sheer force lifted the sheets and comforter from my body. It sounded as if a plane had just broken the sound barrier in the room. It was the first time in the relationship that I had let go with a cracked rat and there was no dog around to blame. Instead of embarassment I was filled with a sense of pride. I began laughing like I was watching an autistic kid try to solve a Rubiks cube and turned my head to check what I was sure was my partners joy in being able to share this monumental moment. After all the relationships fart cherry had been finally broken, she had to be happy that I felt so comfortable around her.

Wrong.

The look on her face was of total disgust. It couldn't have been worse if I she had seen me lick a turd on a stick. Still giggling like a schoolgirl, I questioned her look. "What? Everybody farts." "It's disgusting,gross and childish. And I don't fart." The utter obsurdity of the that statement made me laugh even harder and the harder I laughed the more the remainig gas shifted and soon it started to release like machine gun fire. Thus making me laugh harder and fart more, it was a vicious cycle. She just looked at me, stared as I reveled in my flatulance. After a few minutes she left the room and spent the night sleeping on the couch. The next morning as we got ready for work, she didn't talk to me at all the same for the next two days. All in all the silence wasn't bad or unwelcome but eventually I realized she was in fact serious. She had never farted. Was this possible? My curiousity got the better of me and I broke down and tried to make amends. I apologized several times and eventually she bought it. With that I had my opening, I questioned her every chance I got. I had to know. I used my best interrogation technics, changed up the questions and did everything I could to trip her up. She never faltered, never changed her answer. At 28 years of age, she swore she had never farted. This was impossible, wasn't it? From the time leading up to my episode, I couldn't remember her even mentioning she felt bloated. No strange odors ever came from anywhere near her. It was odd but the more I looked into the facts, the more I came to believe that she had in fact never farted. It became my job, my goal, my mission to make her let one fly. For the next year and a half or so, everytime I cooked I would try to figure out a way to work cabbage, beans anything known to man that would cause gas. If we went out I would suggest Mexican restaurants. Fastfood is good for the gaseous build up, I ate so much Mcdonalds me and the clown are now on a first name basis. Through countless dinners I sat across from her waiting for her to extend an index finger in my direction and utter those magical words, "Pull it.". The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Such was the case. Nothing I did, nothing I tried even elicited an SBD. I tried and tried and tried, all I accomplished was giving myself more gas the Exxon Mobil. Eventually between her personality and my plans complete failure, I gave up. We parted ways and I never heard from her again. Never thought of her again, not until I found the number. With the whole saga now lodged firmly in my brain, I am half tempted to call the number but at the same time afraid to. There are only three possible endings that could come from calling it. She will have moved and there will be no answer or someone else will answer, either way there will be no resolution. Or she will answer and I will find out someone else got to be there for the maiden departure, which will cause serious self hate in myself for giving up on the plan. Or I will dial up the number and find out that after 30 years of methane building up she got too close to an open flame and blew up, killing three others in the process. At which point I will feel bad for never attending the funaeral and missing my chance to let others know this could have been avoided is she had only let one go. I think I will just assume the number has changed, the other alternatives are just to heartbreaking to imagine.

4 comments

  1. thegnu // October 12, 2008 at 6:06 AM  

    if you call, and someone else lives there, you can ask if they know anyone who's never farted.

  2. Hansgonsolo // October 12, 2008 at 7:20 AM  

    Haha true, but I don't think it's possible for two to exist one is a freak of nature, two is an abomination

  3. Derwaish // October 15, 2008 at 5:05 AM  

    Dude, you just HAVE to call! This is too much of a suspense! But my question is... what do you say? "Hey, you farted as yet??" :P

  4. Hansgonsolo // October 15, 2008 at 6:42 AM  

    I think I'm gonna put it up for a vote and if enough people want me to call I'll just wing it from there LOL