I would like to preface this story by telling you that I may have been overly liberal in my consumption of frozen bean burritos in the waning hours of an inebriated cheat day the day prior. The day following this gratuitous consumption, I awoke to easily surmountable GI unpleasantness, and thus paid not a second thought to the idea of jump-starting my gains by consuming a post-lunch shake with three scoops of whey protein.
Ground Zero
I farted last night in my office cube. I thought it was going to be a regular pufft, not escaping a 1 cube radius, as every fart before it. But this one, this one was special. It was slow-escaping, damp, almost viscous. It had all the makings of a Level 5 Protein Fart and when the smell first hit me, I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t, I had to remain calm, but inside - inside a terror gripped me like the hands of the devil himself.
I knew this was going to be bad. And I could see it was spreading. 2 cubes away my coworker and roommate Dash stands up, “the fuck is that?”
My teammate and cube neighbor Keenan is walking back from the kitchen with a cup of coffee, “Holy shit. Who farted?”
“My bad,” I foolishly admitted but, hey, these two men were my closest confidants in the workplace.
It was spreading.
4 cubes away a Data Analyst named Pat starts choking.
Lu, the hot Asian office manager, is walking by Pat’s desk and her face scrunches as if she has just skinned a lemon and placed the entire thing in her mouth.
“Oh my god is that real?!” she screams. "Who did that?“
By now everybody knows it was me. I shouldn’t have admitted to this one. It was too bad. No good was going to come of this.
M.A.D. – Mutually Assured Destruction
A sweet little Associate named Amelia, the type of girl who probably has a pie cooling on her window sill at all hours of the day, walks by with her arm up over her mouth as if she has just been tear gassed. We made brief eye contact – there was hatred in her eyes. She shook her head slightly and continued marching past.
Luckily it was after 5pm, most of the office had already gone home for the day and they were spared. But those unlucky few who were still milling about in the afternoon florescent twilight made me very aware of the atrocities I had committed.
My own brand of methane hadn’t been this pungent since altitude sickness and egg whites caused me throw out a pair of pants back ’08.
Not since college cafeteria food had my intestines been fueled with such a fiery demon fuel.
I left the office that night in shame. I was laughing, but it was a shameful laughter. I was laughing to distract myself from the fact that that single passing of wind had, like paint thinner, stripped my dignity from my once proud façade.
I went home that night shivering with dishonor.
The Aftermath
The next day, I am walking into the office building just as my boss, a Senior Director named Hilda, and a VP named Bertha are walking out. Hilda looks me square in the eye and says without preface, “who farted last night?”
I was a deer in headlights.
“Are… are you serious?” I stuttered.
Without even blinking, Hilda looks at me says, “yes.”
She knows.
I lingered for only a second more before simply turning and walking into the building without uttering a word.
I tried to play it off like nothing had happened. But something had happened. Something grave and seemingly unforgivable. The story of Hilda’s remarks made their rounds. Closer friends had a good laugh. By noon, all was quiet on the Western Front.
Then, as 4:30pm rolls around on that Friday afternoon, I subtly wave goodbye and try to casually duck out the side door and leave a few minutes early for the weekend. Lu, the office manager, spots me and shouts out, “see you later Farter. Have a good weekend.”
God damn it. Thanks a lot three scoops, now people call me “Farter” around the office. I knew I had it right from the beginning, I’m sticking with two scoops.
-Tony “Farter” Muscoli
