Originally published by drfaustroll under Blather, Pataphysics, Phyddling About February 2, 2009

This can, of course, prove lethal to you, because I am immune to my farts, while others have suggested they be considered weapons of gas mask destruction. I have made the cat cry. I have watched the sensitive mimosa curl up and wither under the assault of chili with beans and Pabst Blue Ribbon engendered hot foul blasts reminiscent of low-tide on a full moon in Secaucus, New Jersey.

I recall one night at the Study Hall in Clemson, South Carolina, circa 1968 when, after having consumed several pitchers of Old Milwaukee to wash down a few black beauties (it was finals week), eaten a dozen pickled eggs, some boiled peanuts, two or three Penrose sausages, and several Slim Jims, I stumbled out of the john where I had apparently rendered two other patrons unconscious.

Back at the bar Bill DesChamps was talking with Wanda Japan, Wayne “Bo” Trout, Neal Downer, and Johnny Shields, a defensive back (perhaps a safety) for the Clemson Tigers, and as I struggled back up on my stool, I let rip with the most god awful triple floodablast ever to echo through that hallowed establishment, shredding my corduroy bell-bottoms and leaving my stupid asshole fully exposed to the suitably inebriated clientele of that second most revered of Clemson landmarks.

Wanda asked politely why I hadn’t bothered to shit while I was in the crapper, to which I responded with a blank stare as if I had no idea what she was talking about, as the bar suddenly emptied as if the fire marshal had ordered everyone to evacuate, which, of course, it smelled like I just did.

Since then I have learned how to control my emissions more effectively and professionally, knowing exactly how long, for instance, I have to exit an elevator before the doors close and leave the victims of what has most recently failed to kill me to frown and glare at one another until the doors open again upon a breath of fresh air, even if it is just corporate America.