Saturday Night Gas Fest
*TMI ALERT* *TMI ALERT* *TMI ALERT*
Have you ever been on a date when you were faced with a decision in which none of the options were desirable yet one had to be made quickly? I had just one such date on Saturday.
It was my second date with Tom, the guy who didn’t look like his pictures. I hadn’t exactly been excited about the date, but when he arrived, he was much cuter than I’d remembered. Hooray!
He took me to a fun little Italian joint in Burbank where I ordered a pasta primavera, heavy on the broccoli. He was fun and easy to talk to and the conversation flowed swimmingly.
Afterwards, we were walking around the crowded pedestrian path when… I felt it. Something was a-brewing down in the intestinal regions. It was an air bubble, shimmying its way down my descending colon. Jiminy Crickets, does this really have to be happening now, on a date with a decent man who pays for my dinner and pulls out my chairs?
Being that I had downed a pint of amber lager and am a lightweight, I was feeling pretty saucy. The area was loud and packed with people around us, so I decided to test the waters and let one go.
I figured, if it were of the loud and odorless variety, he wouldn’t hear it above the street musicians and other party people yammering about. And if it were silent and deadly, I could blame it on the obese dude lumbering along in front of us.
I took a deep breath and released the Kraken.
Success! It was loud and odorless, so the fat guy lucked out. And Tom didn’t hear a thing. Unfortunately, there was more where that came from and I knew it.
He asked what I wanted to do next. I frantically pondered my choices:
- Ask him to take me home so I could cut the cheese in peace to my heart’s content in my own abode. But I’d be wasting a perfectly good buzz and good hair night.
- Go out, but excuse myself to the restroom every time I had to toot. However, I’d be in and out of the john so much he’d think I either suffered from overactive bladder or was a coke fiend.
- Go out, but hold it in. I’ve done this all too many times and I always wind up doubled over from piercing gastrointestinal pain.
- Go out, but continue in stealth fashion as I had with the test fart.
He threw out a couple suggestions of what we could do. Go to the movies, have a couple drinks in Hollywood? Hollywood! Yes! Anywhere we’d go in Hollywood would be loud and raucous. Let’s do that. Option 4 it is!
And that’s how the night went. We got good and liquored up amid the ear-splitting ambience that is the Frolic Room. I was able to laugh at his jokes and simultaneously let ‘em rip with no one the wiser.
I congratulated myself on my sound decision-making skills. Everybody wins!
Yeah, but, uh, what about the guy?
Many people have inquired about how the date went so I figured I should provide a quick review. Aside from the butt symphony, it was pretty good. As I said, he was cuter than I’d thought and we had a lot of fun together. We swapped some spit at the end and he’s a fine kisser.
However, something is missing. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m not anticipating his calls or daydreaming about him. Maybe this is healthy. Because the men I go completely gaga for usually turn out to be huge disappointments. A future with this man? I dunno, I’m not thinking about that. A third date, certainly.
So that’s that. Have any of you been cursed with flatulence on a date? How did you handle it? Please share. I love a good dating-n-fart story.