Back when I was in college I had a roommate who liked to fart loudly and prolifically. He would, quite literally, lift his leg in the air and let loose a moist, noisy, nasty burst of gas. His laugh inevitably followed, to which I usually said, “Man, the last thing I want to do is breathe in the air from your ass.”
Which I meant.
I bring this up because, a few moments ago, I was waiting outside the bathroom here at Starbucks. Someone was inside, and when the door opened he emerged. He was a nice-looking gentleman, with slacks and a dress shirt and his tie wrapped over his right shoulder—which means he just took a dump.
The room smelled. Not terribly, but not great. I was, without question, breathing in the air from another person’s anal cavity.
This grosses me out. More than boogers. More than bloody boogers, even. More than vomit and more the oozing, festering cuts. The idea that another person’s bowel-related dischange is somehow entering my nose and mouth and circling its way through my body. No good.
Sadly, little can be done. Lord knows how many stranger farts a person walks through in the average day. Dozens, at least. So I suppose we just sniff and deal.
PS: Along these lines—the other day my daughter came home from school. She said her entire first grade class got in trouble for laughing when a girl farted aloud. I find this unfair. While farts are gross, they’re also undeniably uproarious—time after time after time. I don’t know what the future holds for this nation, but I’m quite confident it includes farts, and post-fart laughter.