Until 7th grade, I never encountered someone who farted constantly until, that is, I encountered the Jockstraps. The first one I encountered was from a higher grade (8th, I believe) who sat next to me in an elective course. He farted. Constantly. Normally, he lifted a cheek so as to make it silent but a tell-tale noise revealed all. He blew several of these babies each hour.
Well, some people are simply gaseous, so what the hell. But maybe this guy could drop an AirWick in his drawers?
In the eighth grade, I encountered more Jockstraps and, sure enough, they too produced an abnormal flux of farts. Some trumpeted like a bassoon, others squeaked like mice, but fart they did. Of course I wasn’t the only one to observe this phenomenon; several of my friends and acquaintances commented on the same thing. Also, as we progressed through the grades, the volume and frequency of Jockstrap farts increased a-pace. The only time I saw a reversal of this trend was when a Jockstrap dropped from a team (voluntarily or involuntarily, who could say).
I’d become chums with one of the fellows on the football team and though he too farted copiously, I was never so indelicate as to ask why. I let mater ride. Then one day, he mentioned a thing called the “training table”. In the worlds of college and professional sports, much is made of this “training table”. Basically, it’s a menu of approved and forbidden foods, all designed to promote vigor and durability.
While high school Jockstraps don’t repair to a camp in the wilderness like the pros where they can be hectored and browbeaten by coaches, our school’s Jockstraps were given lists of these selected foods. I quizzed my chum; what, exactly, was on the menu? Turns out it It was heavy on cheeses, beans potatoes and fruit. Well no damned wonder they fart!
Of course the flatulence did’n t affect their lives in any negative way. Thanks to their physical beauty and prowess, the babes hung on their arms and blew in their ears, no matter the gaseous emissions . In fact there were several young ladies who’d give you the backs of their hands unless you had a letter on your sweater. Oh, thy might nod in your direction, or ask to copy your term paper, but that was about it.
After my Jockstrap chum disclosed the training table’s bill of fare , I rushed to the store to stock up on the victuals. Perhaps if I farted as much as the Jockstraps, I too might get the girl – or at least have a chance at getting one. So I dutifully stoked up . I imagined myself walking arm-in-arm down the hall with sweet Diane while leaving a trail of effluvium as we went. With every blast, she would gush and coo.
It didn’t work. I was soon in bad odor more then ever before (no pun intended). The girls simply said “PEE YOU” and held their noses. The fellows simply asked me to light matches. One teacher went so far as to ask if I needed to use the bathroom.
So, then, while my experiment didn’t work out so well, at long last my question as to Why Do They Do It Anyway, was answered.
PS: While on the subject of flatulence, I’ve discovered a sure-fire way to produce voluminous, frequent farts exquisitely foul: An hour ahead of time, eat a double scoop of French Vanilla ice cream and two large hands-full of raisins. Try it some evening around dinner time. Such Fun!