Sunday Post 155: Totally Fulfilled…by a Fart

In the fourth grade, Wendy Templeton farted… out loud. We had our books out, focused on our Scholastic readers. Her row of desks was facing mine. She was wearing a short red dress. Mrs. McNally, our stodgy old teacher who was nearing retirement, was at her desk in the front of the class. She was wearing a large, black pleated skirt down to her ankles. Damn that was a lot of fabric.

I couldn’t believe it… she just let one rip! It was loouud; I guess it echoed on the metal of her chair.

I felt bad. She was so embarrassed. Her light complexion turned the same color as her dress. She slouched in her seat and propped up her folder to cover her head.

I tried not to laugh, she was my friend. But when Mrs. McNally announced, “Get back to work, it’s a natural bodily function,” I lost it.

I don’t care how natural it was, it was also hilarious. I was sent to the hall, unable to contain my amusement with Wendy’s wind.

Farts are still funny to me. I’ll be in a bathroom at work or church and some old man will let one rip. It’s all I can do to make it out of the bathroom without audibly cracking up.

Once a boy, always a boy I guess.

Maybe it would serve us all well to be more like kids. I don’t mean we should all laugh when someone passes gas. The older we get, the more that’s gonna happen – certainly it will get old eventually.

But isn’t it beautiful to be amused by such small surprises? How wonderful to be totally fulfilled by a fart.

Now, it takes so much more – an expensive house, vacation, kids with straight A’s, 106 Facebook likes, the right job title.

It used to be so simple. Joy, amusement, laughter, and life seemed endless – striking me from every direction.

When and why do I let that go?

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I Just Want Gas…

Posted by Danny

I just wanted a tank of gas.  That’s all. 

Yesterday I pulled up to the WILCO and climbed out of my car.  I was in  a hurry – when am I not in a hurry?  I had 12 minutes before the sitter needed to leave – she has a Monday night class.  But I couldn’t wait any longer – the “get your butt to the gas station” light had been on for over 30 miles.

I got out of the car and inserted my credit card.

PLEASE ENTER YOUR ZIP CODE PLEASE ENTER YOUR ZIP CODE PLEASE ENTER YOUR ZIP CODE

It is the same zip code as the gas station.  Why, why does WILCO need to know my zip code?  Are they sending flowers? 

Exasperated I entered 2-7-6-0-7…and waited.  But nothing happened.  I watched the tiny screen, my lifeline to my future.

Finally…What?  My new friend scolded me.

YOU DID NOT HIT THE ENTER BUTTON AFTER YOU ENTERED YOUR ZIP CODE STUPID!  RE-ENTER IT AND PRESS THE GREEN ENTER KEY.  AND DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT!  I TOLD YOU THAT THE FIRST TIME – PAY ATTENTION!

I made my second attempt pressing the buttons with the vigor of a boxer in a championship bout.  Take that! 

DO YOU WANT A DRINK?

Now you’re worried about my comfort?  Yes – there are drink machines attached to the gas tanks.  How convenient.

No.  I don’t want a damn drink.  Nor do I want beef jerky, a Moon Pie or a rotisseried red hot dog.  If I did, I would walk inside.  I just want gasoline!!!!

I entered the correct response, although so many people have pressed “No” that the letters are no longer visible to the human eye.

DO YOU WANT A CAR WASH?  IT IS SPRING AND YOUR SILVER CAR HAS A GREENISH-YELLOW HUE.

No!  No!  I do not want a car wash.  I do not want a drink.  I do not like them Sam I Am.  What I want is a stick of frickin’ dynamite to stick up your pump!  My kids are waiting for me.  The sitter’s gonna flunk biology!!

If I EVER ALLOW YOU TO PUMP GAS, WOULD YOU LIKE A RECEIPT?

Finally something I do want.  But shouldn’t that be a given?

I gently touch the car to ensure that she’s ready for insertion.

It looks like we’re finally there.  My mind drifts, making a list of things that must be accomplished that night.

I hear the flow stop.  I quickly remove the handle and screw the gas cap back on, my keys in my hand when my nemeses sends me one last message:

OUT OF PAPER.  RECEIPT AVAILABLE AT THE CHECKOUT COUNTER

Son – of –  a –

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