DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

Let’s just put it right out in the open: this is a story about farting. If you’re easily offended — wait, never mind; you would have been offended a long time ago. Read on with my blessing.

I was sitting in a stadium of 80,000 people on a gorgeous Fall day, all blue skies and warm sun, with my favorite team (inasmuch as I can be said to have a favorite team, given that what I know about college football can be inscribed in 48-point Aachen Bold across the spine of the thinnest of the six O’Reilly titles in my collection) fighting the good fight down there on the field, when, four or five times during the first half, the stench of sphincter came washing across the stands. It was rank.

One row below me, a group of fellow sufferers were waving their hands in front of their faces, in what appeared to be some kind of failing tribal/pagan ritual to convince the wind god to blow the other way. It was similar to, and as ineffective as the flapping motion some people make when they put a forkful of 200° food in their mouths and realize that the only thing that would damage more tissue would be spitting it out, so they wave one hand (two if it’s really hot) and widen their eyes until the heat dissipates, or all the nerves in their mouths die from the third-degree burn, whichever comes first. The women were sitting with their sweatshirts pulled up over their noses. After the third attack, one of the guys announced to everyone in earshot, or maybe nose-shot, “OK, that’s it. Someone needs to stop farting right now.”

We suffered twice more, and then to our relief it was halftime, and we all said a little prayer of thanks (it’s a Catholic university, after all) that the perp might go vent his horrible bowels in the restroom, or at least somewhere downwind.

And then the marching band came on the field and played “Classical Gas.” Seriously.