Reads: 360  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 2

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Everyone farts. The Queen, the Pope, George Bush, Tony Blair, Princess Caroline, Nelson Mandela, Kylie Mynogue and even that gorgeous bird who reads the news on Sky T.V., they all fart, believe me. If God were around, he’d fart.

Submitted: January 16, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 16, 2008



I know that for every one of you that has actually started to read this story, there are probably two or three who, on seeing the title, turned up their noses, sneered and muttered something about “disgusting” or “sick” before discarding the read altogether in favour of some more tasteful title.

The fact is, everybody farts. Everybody, no exceptions, no exclusions, no individual, or group that’s divinely pardoned. In my (possibly sick) little mind, I often get a slight sense of amusement in the back of my mind watching T.V. and seeing all the Celebrity “We Don’t Fart’s,” or so we’re expected to believe. I watch programs like the Oscars and wonder to myself, how many of the celeb’s present are dying to let one go, or have sneaked one out in the car, or even as they’re walking down the aisle to receive their golden statue?

Everyone farts. The Queen, the Pope, George Bush, Tony Blair, Princess Caroline, Nelson Mandela, Kylie Mynogue and even that gorgeous bird who reads the news on Sky T.V., they all fart, believe me. If God were around, he’d fart.

It’s part of nature, part of the natural process of taking in foods and drinks and, depending on the content, the body builds up excess gases which have to be expelled somehow. Either they’re expelled as a good solid belch, or, if they’ve gone further down  the digestion process, they end up as a fart.

A friend of mine once said that the best way to see if you were going to be compatible with your future life partner was to “get on farting terms” with him/her. Do it before you get married, he said as you never can tell what’s going to happen once that first wind is broken. My Mother believes that a person should “go to the toilet” if they want to fart. Either that, or go out into the garden and let rip so no one has to suffer except the neighbours. For me, this would mean having to stop, mid-fart and say, “whoops, I feel a fart coming on”, get up from my seat and walk all the way upstairs to the bathroom where I would undo my belt, drop my pants and underpants, sit myself down comfortably and then let off that three second blast. All this, in a vague effort to hide the fact that nature told me to let-rip, let go, baff, shed my load, call it what you want but the bottom line is a fart is still, a fart.

Farts are not regulated by any sort of timing mechanism, no lunar clock or gravitational forces can allow you to predict when it’s going to happen. The bottom line is that sometimes you can hold it back and let it go in some more private setting and that other times, you just have to let go.

Which brings me to my story and to the sorry tale of” the little fart that shouldn’t have”.

Now I mentioned the fact that the amount of gas you expel, depends a lot on the type of food and drink you put into your system. Certain foods are reputed to produce more gas and others less. Beans for instance, are reputed to make a lot of gas. Similarly, certain gassy drinks like beers or fizzy cold drinks can make the body produce more than its fair share of gas. Certain combinations of these foods can take 1 plus 1 and make it 3. A good Chilli-con-carne washed down with a couple of Newcastle Brown’s can make an explosive chamber of gases, deadly to all within the wind’s direction and certainly not one to win friends or influence people.

Which was exactly the combination of foods and drinks I’d had the on the Sunday night before.

Just to give you a little bit of background to this story; I work on the ninth floor of a grey and boring little building in Central Cape Town and am busy doing my articles with a grey and boring firm of Chartered Accountants who would sneer at the fact that I’m even writing this story, after all, and I forgot to mention, Chartered Accountants don’t fart. They can’t fart. They’re too damned neat, clean, and precise to fart, especially in public. Any other member of my Firm, anticipating a lethal combination of Chilli and Beer, would have set his alarm for 5.30 instead of 6.30 and spent the first part of his day, forcefully expelling any possible embarrassment that might just rear its ugly head later in the day. A good dose of laxatives the night before is probably written somewhere in the big, big training manual for all budding Chartered Accountants. I hadn’t got to read that part of the manual yet.

Driving into work that morning, I’d used just about every second of stationary traffic, to press down firmly on the brake pedal whilst discreetly lifting my backside off the seat. Enough to take the pressure of my backside and allow the rather noxious gases to escape. Getting to the office and finding a nice loo to divest myself of the previous night’s excesses was my number one priority.

After slipping my car into it’s underground designated bay, I quickly grabbed my briefcase and jacket and pinching my buttocks together, made my way towards the elevator which would take me from the basement, to within ten paces of the friendly loo on the ninth floor.

The lift indicators showed that all four of the lifts were in the process of going upwards and depositing their passengers at just about every floor before commencing on their downward journeys.

I stood alone as I pressed the lift buttons somewhat frantically, hoping somehow to change the direction of the upward travelling lifts.

I was joined in the foyer by one of the now familiar daily faces and his secretary, both who normally got out at the fifth floor.

A short while later, I found myself amongst nine others who had made their way from their parking bays to the lift foyer.

By this time, I was almost frantic, the gases now pressing painfully against my stomach and forcing me to clench my buttocks even tighter.

I saw some relief in sight as lift number three started its slow descent down to the basement parking foyer. I worked out that it would take another two minutes to get down allowing for a couple of stops on the way. I recognised several people in the group and tried to recall which floors they worked on in an attempt to estimate the time it would take to deposit me and my excess cargo on the ninth floor.

Five minutes was my estimate as I stared up at the indicators, hoping that another lift would be making its way down at a quicker pace and cutting my agony down by a minute or more.

The pain in my gut increased as I did a slow shuffle on the spot to hide my urgency from the other waiting passengers.

Lift number three arrived, announcing itself with a dull electronic ring and a “Microsoft” voice, telling passengers that this lift was going up! Again, I looked up at the other indicators in the hope that one of them would be arriving shortly. No luck there.

Along with the nine others, I stepped into the lift, heading straight for the back wall where I could at least hide the facial expressions which pronounced my forthcoming eruptions.

Fingers flew from all directions, stabbing at the lift control panel. I saw that the lift would be stopping at all floors from the third right up to the seventh. No one had pushed number nine and not wanting to push through the mass of bodies and risk an uncontrollable explosion, I shouted “Nine please” whereafter, a hand shot out, and the indicator for the ninth floor went on. Our firm had offices on the eighth and ninth floors and today was the day I wished I worked on the lower floor or at least knew the whereabouts of the Gents loo. In my mind, I gave this up as a bad idea, as apart from everything else, this was the floor where all of the Secretaries and typing pool ladies resided. This was my bachelor’s hunting ground, a land one only imagined in your dreams. A place where horny little birds in tight, short dresses, spent their boring days fantasising about the men on the ninth floor and other such coffee machine gossip. The last thing I wanted to do was walk in and ask one of these ladies directions to the loo, only to have them all gossiping later on about how I’d polluted the place.

The lift had reached the fifth floor – only two more deposits, I thought to myself, now hardly daring to move in case I couldn’t control it any more. I tried to take my mind off things by thinking about the beauties on the eighth floor and in particular, a group of five girls who always gave me a warm and friendly smile as they came up to the ninth every morning to take minutes and notes at the various meeting taking place first thing in the morning. I’d chatted to two of them, Sarah and Madeleine, who both seemed more than willing to take things to the next stage. I’d suggested we all go for a drink some time and that I’d organise a couple of my mates to join us.

Sixth floor – electronic ring, Microsoft voice, lift doors closing ever so slowly.

The other three secretaries seemed to be up for a bit of an evening out and who knows where things could lead to from there. Me, the eligible Bachelor, them, the “do anything to climb up the ladder quickly” crowd. Knowing I’d soon be finished my articles and earning a half decent salary would be incentive enough for any of them to become a “really good secretary.”

The lift seemed to crawl the last few feet to the seventh floor where it would deposit the last of the unwelcome passengers.

Finally, pain searing through my gut and bowel , the lift stopped and the door opened to the familiar electronic ring, Microsoft voice, and slow shuffle of feet out of the lift.

I edged forward and stabbed at the “9” button, hoping to shut the doors quicker. The pain now burning so badly that it was now or never.

The doors slowly closed and as the last slither of light disappeared, my control gave in completely.

Alone at last, I let go of a grumbling, gaseous fart that warmed the insides of my trousers as the air escaped. Four, five, six seconds. Oh My God! Thank God I could hold on so long. The smell was absolutely foul! Forget about Chilli and Brown Ale, it smelled like half of the local sewerage treatment plant had just poured out of my backside.

I smiled to myself having relieved the main cause of my severe cramping and stomach pains. I fanned my hands around in the air, hoping, but failing to disperse the foul odour which was now almost making me gag in this confined space.

“Ping,” I heard the electronic ring, thinking I’d still have to make a dash to the loo as the doors opened. Expecting to find myself getting out on the ninth, I looked up to the indicator panel at the same time that The Microsoft voice announced “Eighth Floor.”

The doors slid open slowly and in stepped Sarah, Madeleine, and their three colleagues from the secretarial pool.

Smiling, they stepped into the lift. Their expressions immediately changed to one of complete shock and horror as the trapped gasses suddenly hit their noses.

Hands flapping, gagging noises and hysterical screams accompanied their frantic body movements until one of them managed to hit the “Door Open” button, after which they didn’t just walk out of the lift, but actually pushed so hard that all five of them ended up in a heap outside the lift door.

Needless to say, My hunting ground has now dried up to zero and apart from the sniggers of my Colleagues on the ninth, I have to endure the sneers from the Secretarial pool every time they walk past me in the corridor.

I also have to put up with the anonymous emails that hit my computer from time to time knowing that I’ve earned the nickname “Sarin” after the nerve gas used in the Japanese subway attack that killed so many people.



© Copyright 2018 BarryD. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:


Booksie 2018 Poetry Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by BarryD


Short Story / Other


Short Story / Thrillers

Popular Tags