I naively didn’t pay much attention to any weather predictions. It was chilly this morning, and instead of wearing shorts to work, I opted for my usual outfit of jeans, tee shirt and suspenders. The temperature climbed to the low 80’s, and just as I was about to leave work at 4:00 to go home and change into more comfortable clothes, I got a text from Ian: meet me at ***. (Seattle gay bar.) Okay, see you there.
Ian was full of his usual bombast -what a stupid young man he can be- but he kept buying me drinks and then a large plate of nachos. Yuck, I care not to eat that crap but I did anyway. Big time!
I went into the loo to pee, and passed a MASSIVE fart. (I felt my underwear to make sure that nothing else happened.) When I returned from eliminating what felt like a gallon of piss, Ian was outside smoking, oh he has such a dramatic fixation with the ‘Bette Davis’ style. Why do homosexual men find more in common with Flora Tosca than Leonore in Fidelio?
Now the envelope please, what you were waiting for, no doubt. After getting rather disgusted with Ian, I took my leave and walked home, all the way jet propelled by one fart after another. A block from home, a final fart accomplished what I figured was liable to happen. I just wish my roommate wasn’t home when I waddled in the door.