Part I – Elder Abuse
On a Saturday morning recently I was doing my laundry. I usually get going pretty early on weekends, so this story takes place at 4:30 in the morning. I got dressed and assembled my laundry and supplies, and then headed down to the main floor of my building where the laundry room is. On my way down in the elevator, I dropped an absolute corker of a fart. Without getting into too many details, it was a real seafood chum nightmare. It was both putrid and acrid, and one that you could tell I had been baking all night long. I felt that this would be a ëfreebieí in the sense that there was very likely no one waiting on the ground floor when the elevator arrived there. So it was a kind of “get out of jail free” type fart. I enjoy dropping bombs in elevators when I can – not just for the sheer anonymity of it, but also because of the thrill I get knowing that it is a real throw of the dice when it comes to the terminus of the ride ñ will my destination be devoid of any fellow humans, or will there be a bright, hopeful soul there, ready to unwittingly walk into my juice cloud of filth?
At 4:30 in the morning I expected no one to be standing and waiting on the main floor, however I was in for a treat this day. There was an elderly man standing right in front of the elevator button. I noticed as I walked out the elevator door that he was quite dishevelled, and was sporting a greasy comb-over hairstyle with his hair askew. As I exited the elevator he did not bother to make eye contact with me. Normally this would bother me a bit as I like to acknowledge strangers, but in this case it played precisely into my hand. I walked right past him, and he quickly stepped into the elevator and the door closed behind him. Walking into my air strike must have been like getting hit in the face with a piece of overripe fruit.
Whack! Take that, you greasy bastard! 🙂
Part II – Boomerang of Vengeance
This second story was almost like a triple play in baseball, or getting a natural hat trick in hockey. This would have been almost impossible to pull off had I been trying to do this, so the fact that this happened the way it did is pure genius.
On Monday I decided to take a cab into work, and left early in the morning. Like the story above, on my way down in the elevator I had to drop my guts. Beef stroganoff the night before. Quite ripe, with heavy oak overtones, and a strong aftertaste of fetid rotten beef. Regardless of the way it smelled, I am a firm believer in the phrase coined my Marshall McLuhan, ìthe medium is the messageî. The phrase was introduced in McLuhan’s book Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, published in 1964. McLuhan proposes that that the form of a medium embeds itself in any message it would transmit or convey, creating a symbiotic relationship by which the medium influences how the message is perceived.
In my case, my fart was both the medium and the message. But I digress.
On my way down the elevator I realized that I had forgotten my gloves, so I had to head right back up. This allowed the fart that I had dropped on the ride down to steep nicely. I took the elevator directly back to my floor, and went to my apartment and got my gloves. I returned and pushed the elevator button, and realized right away that the elevator I had just taken had gone down to the main floor. Oh, yes…… the gravy train. Someone down there was about to get cooked in the face.
After a few moments of waiting, I heard the delicious ‘ding’ of the very same elevator arriving on my floor. The door opened, and a guy walked out with a horribly disgusted look on his face. He paused and looked at me as though deciding if he was going to say something. He took a few paces, and then he stopped and turned and said to me “someone just fucking farted in there, and it wasn’t me”.
The best part about the way this played out was that he would of course have no idea that it was in fact me that he was smelling. Besides, the number one rule of farts is ìif you smelt it, you dealt itî. Protocol and social etiquette demand that he take responsibility for it. As a friend once told me, even if you didnít make the smell in a menís room, if someone walks in while you are in there and it stinks, common courtesy demands that you own the stank. I donít make the rules.
What a truly beautiful situation. I completely fouled an elevator, and some guy gets his early morning ruined by a demonic ghost fart that I left for him. The elevator then returns the affected guest directly to me. In turn, the man feels guilt and remorse for something that looks like he did, and feels that I would judge him harshly for an act that, unbeknownst to him, I committed. Of course I still judged him harshly. I felt I had a right and a moral obligation to judge him, owing to the way he left that elevator for me. God in heaven! If that had been someone else’s fart it would have been absolutely unconscionable. For one human being to do that to a complete stranger – totally disgusting. He knew it too.
Goddam freak.
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