So, in the spirit of Black History Month, Yale’s undergrads decided it would be a good idea to have a week devoted to the finer points of bustin’ nuts. And, since only an idiot could miss the connection between billy clubs and skeet, I thought it only proper to weigh in on a matter overlooked in the Sex Week Magazine (though there was an ad for custom-made rubbers. That’s if you’re into that sort of thing). Last summer, while my brother and I rapped about the finer points of interaction with the fairer sex, he let one rip in front of his beloved girlfriend and she feigned disgust but clearly didn’t care. Once the smoke cleared, I reveled in my brother’s seeming victory.
In the universe that is dating (a foreign concept in the college ranks, yes, but go with me here), everyone knows you can’t fart in front of a girl until she either farts in front of you or you’ve crossed the three to four month barrier — and even the latter is questionable. Plenty of guys have had a poor night’s sleep next to a cutie because we held gas in for four-plus hours. And dropping a deuce? Forget it. I have personally held a shit overnight because I didn’t feel it was kosher to use a girl’s bathroom.
Since girls don’t drop deuces, they really can’t understand our anguish. It’s an evil game of cat and mouse. If you poot in front of a girl, you’ll surely feel relieved, but you are unlikely to get any “relief.” Ask a lot of guys, and at one point or another, they’ve found themselves in an extra comfy, extra-long twin praying they didn’t step on a duck as they drift off to sleep to her “sad white girl” playlist. (Sidebar One: Girls’ beds in college are comfy as shit. They’re like three feet taller due to a feather bed, down comforter, five posturepedic pillows and jersey knit cotton sheets. Now take a guy’s bed: Its got one dark sheet, a flat ass pillow and that weird, fleecy under-blanket from a Motel Six. I swear, I don’t even know how broads get outta bed).
Now you might be saying to yourself, “Jon, do guys just go farting all the time?”
The answer is yes.
I promise that, among the dudes you see traversing the streets on any given day, a good percentage are at some stage of breaking wind. But in the presence of a girl you fancy, no one cockblocks more than your gastrointestinal system. Not even her mean, fat friend who thinks giving out lots of blow jobs makes her well-liked. Nope, your guts will up the gas factor tenfold if it looks like you’re going to be in close proximity of a girl for more than four minutes. You excuse yourself to “pee” a few times, all the while hoping you can walk the gas off — although it’s equally important to break the stink link that can trail in and abruptly end the physical itinerary for the evening. You know how a meal isn’t enjoyable when you have to use the bathroom? Heavy petting: same treatment.
Which brings me back to my original point, Emancipation Day — that moment of glory when a chick farts in front of you and you let loose a twisted cackle of delight. You’ll usually be lounging in bed reading or watching the telly (word to my tea and crumpet duns) while the young lady sleeps like an angel next to you. Then, at a moment when a perfect silence has fallen over the dwelling, you hear *PPTHHHHH* and you laugh your beloved out of her slumber to inform her of her folly. She assumes you are laughing because of her nocturnal flatulence.
Oh no. This is the ecstasy known only to those who have held their gas for months and who now know that the waiting is over. (Sidebar Two: Once emancipated, the young lady in question always seems to ask, “God, do you fart allllll the time???” At this juncture it is imperative to use all your wit and punctilio to very carefully say, “Girl, I been holding these muf*ckas in escrow. Shut it.”) To fart without persecution, to want only to thrust one’s blankets overhead and roguishly execute the Dutch Oven; those, my friends, are the truths our Founding Fathers held to be self-evident. To my brothers who still await with sphincters clenched (sans Brokeback), your day approaches. Stay strong.
Jonathan Pitts-Wiley believes Miller High Life is meant to be had one way: in the bottle.