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1601 Redux

by David Yehudah, Bellflower, CA, USA


This is Cherokee. I know some of you can't read too fast, so I'm typing this real slow.

Last night Dave and Patty had a dinner party, and I'm still fuming about it. Seems they invited some teachers and their families over for dinner, and it beat anything I've ever seen. They banned us critters from the dining room right away, so all we could was watch from a distance. It's a good thing they did, too, because if we'd eaten anything, their table manners would have had us upchucking all over the place. You never heard such lip-smacking and belching in your life. A herd of goats is nowhere near. Even Mac had to quit watching, and y'all know how dainty 'his' manners are.

Just as Patty finished clearing the dishes from the table, suddenly someone let a fart so loud it rattled the windows and of so pestilent a nature that three flies who had managed to get into the dining room fainted dead away. Sam and I hunkered down and covered our noses, and Mac went to sniff our litter box to get the stink out of his nostrils.

In the house where I grew up, such an ostentatious display of flatulence was unheard of. The guilty party would have been roundly denounced by everyone present, and he would have retired in disgrace, thoroughly mortified. But not this bunch.

Everyone started up in surprise, then giggled. The air was briskly fanned by each of the sufferers, but all stayed in their seats and looked around to see who had let such a mighty blast.

Kathy, a skinny old maid whose nose pulled back from her upper lip as if to snag low-hanging tree branches, asked her stumpy husband, "Fred, did you do that?"

He replied, "Not I. If I had let such a wind, I'd be bragging about it for a week, but such displays are far beyond my capacity."

"John, was that you?" she archly asked a corpulent math teacher at her side.

"No way, Jose. My rotund cheeks make any such attempt so high-pitched it would deafen all present."

"How about you, June?" she asked John's twelve-year-old daughter.

"Not bloody likely," said the demure child, "I'm so skinny such a blast would set me flying around the room like a balloon."

Sam was turning an interesting shade of green, but I was so incensed at such blatant bad manners, I was quivering with indignation.

Everyone turned toward the remaining guest, who up until then had sat there with this insufferable little smile, just dying to brag about his contribution to the general hilarity. May he and all his kind be locked in old outhouses forever, so they can enjoy their dubious sport in the company of fellow gasbags.

"Kenny?" everyone said at once.

"Well, I might as well own up, seeing as how there's no one else to take the credit. I hesitated to own up to that pitiful little toot because I'm usually able to do much better." At that the pestiferous old windbag grinned, leaned over to one side, and let such a blast as to put the first to shame. The curtains swayed as in a high wind, and the smell was worse, much worse, than his first try. The stench was indescribable, something like ten litter boxes stirred together in front of a fan.

They all laughed and fell to comparing notes on the best farts they'd ever let or heard or smelled, and Sam and I left in high dudgeon. But not before I strolled under the table and let an SBD (Silent But Deadly) that had them all gagging.

Serves 'em right.


Editor's note:


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