WARNING: PEOPLE OF THE FEMALE GENDER SHOULD NOT READ THIS BLOG ENTRY. THERE IS NO HUMOR TO BE FOUND FOR YOU HERE.
I have to state this because the humor in this entry is mainly based on flatulence. Here is a fact: Men find this subject hilarious, women do not. If you were to ask a co-educational group of people if flatulence-based humor is funny, the response from the women would be a resounding “no”; the men wouldn’t respond at all because they would be too busy laughing and making farting noises with their armpits.
Anyway, the story:
My friend Greg and I went to Boston this past weekend to see a football game. Of course, afterwards we decided to get a “feel for the city”, by which I mean troll the bars for women. We ended up at a popular nightspot downtown called Clery’s, which was very crowded. It was Greg’s turn to buy a round of beers, so he squeezed against the bar, leaving me standing there behind him alone. Next to him, sitting on barstools, were two attractive college-age girls involved in a deep conversation. Now those that know me know that I do not lack for self confidence. I had decided earlier that I wasn’t leaving this bar without chatting up some women, so why not these two? I have some nice clothes on. My hair is looking stylish. I have charm. I have charisma. I—uh...
My mind raced. Could the girls hear it? No way, the music is way too loud. Is it a stinker or a dud? I’m not sure. They were pretty rancid earlier in the day. Oh NO! I can smell it! It IS bad! Real bad!
The girls began making nasty expressions on their faces. They started to turn around. Now I knew…it was CODE RED. I was at DEFCON-3. It was time to go to an Emergency Flatulence Blame Shifting Plan. I just had to decide which one I should utilize:
Pretend That Nothing has Happened at All: Bad idea. The girls would assume that the offending party would act exactly this way in a feeble effort to maintain a shred of dignity.
Hold My Nose and Point Directly at Greg: Again, bad idea. Explicit blame-shifting is always an immediate sign of guilt, not to mention immaturity.
The method I chose was Sniffing Around With a Confused Look on my Face. This pretty much consisted of having a facial expression that seemed to say, “What is this I smell? And where is it coming from?” It may have worked. At least it did until Greg and I got the heck out of there and I could pretend in my mind that it never ever happened.
When we were a safe distance away, I told Greg what had happened and my solution. He was sympathetic. “That was YOU?” he said. “Jeez! I thought a rat died under the bar! I was wondering why one of those chicks seemed to be jamming her elbow in my ribcage! You piece of (very dirty word)!”
Well, at least I retained my dignity.