Cutting the cheese

My second to last class of the day ends. Earbuds in, I head to the L, hop on the train, and blank out on the trip. Finally the train reaches Fullerton and begins to slow down. I rise with the other passengers, then the daintiest fart I’ve ever had comes out my butt.
I’m fully aware by feeling. Not aware of sound…or smell for that matter. I look at the faces around me. No one is looking directly at me. Surely they must know. One guy takes a sweeping glance past me. But what does that mean. I suppress a smile.
I want to laugh, but I can’t.

Whether it’s a blunt burst, loud machine gun, or in my current case, a faint toot, passing gas is funny.
My Twitter followers are aware as I’ve tweeted about gas on multiple occasions. When I woke myself via one solid fart, I knew it would only be selfish not to share it with the Twitter world.
It was just that funny.Why? Because just think about the entire process!
We eat food, but we can’t hear it plop in our stomach acid. Our food digests and we don’t hear anything (for the most part). But when a few gas bubbles escape out of the two flabbiest parts of our body, a disgusting release we can feel, hear, and smell! How humbling is that?

I am aware that not everyone feels this way.
Girls are trained to do whatever necessary to hold that ish in. One of the saddest sights I’ve ever seen is the poor girl in a classroom whose fart accidentally slips at the first second of total silence. Her face looks as though she rather be falling down an endless black hole than see every face whip around and listen to the attempted suppression of laughter.
Boys on the other hand, while discouraged to do it in public and reprimanded if they do not “excuse” themselves, are still able to express joy in their flatulence. If we put a boy in the same situation as the girl, the boy would just be the first to crack up laughing.
Not fair I say.

Why do I take joy in flatulence? It’s how I was raised!
When you have an older brother who greets you by farting, laughs at you when you fart in your sleep, and has farted on top of your head at least twice, you don’t take it so seriously.
Even my dad can’t hold back his laughter. When the three of us drove home late one night and my big bro swore he could fart at will, my brother farted at my dad’s command from that point until we reached the driveway.
On numerous occasions with my now two and half year old nephews, I’ve played or cuddled with one of them only to be farted on and catch a small smile on their not-so-innocent faces.

Unfortunately, not everyone was blessed with such a flatu-lant background.
So way back in those high school days (that’s what it feels like anyway) at dance team practice the more limber I got the more gas escaped. Always a lady I am, which is why I sashayed to the furthest corner and released myself. Don’t worry, I also warned the girls not venture to that area for a while.
My girls were used to it, but when the annual Guy/Girl dance came along, and I had to excuse myself for a toot, the guys were disgusted. My question was if they’d rather I just drop it right beside them and play the “Seriously, who farted?!” game.
I will be so bold as to say that it is more lady like to dismiss yourself and own your flatulence than to force everyone to smell it, then blame it on someone else. Yes, gas is gross, but it is a natural process. Everyone does it. Flatulence is not something to be ashamed of.

I try my best to not be so bold about it around people I’ve just met, but if my stomach gets to moanin, my butt will get to groanin! Can I get an Amen church!
Come on girls! Put your big girl panties on and rip one!
Then politely say “Excuse me!” and carry on.

This is,


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