I know what I would have done. I would have waited for a few others to show up then say out loud to no one in particular, “Fresh bread, I smell fresh bread.”
Who doesn’t take a deep breath if the aroma of fresh baked bread is in the air?
sheesh! you’re horrible, racer72! I like the way you think! 
“Linefarting” … you know, it could’ve been worse. Imagine you’ve sat down at the table and right in the middle of a bite … the accountant in question, er, performs “tablefarting” … oooo, much worse …
Pull my finger!
This reminded me of an actual event in my own past. The gang I lunched with was sitting at least 50’ away from this particular table which was a two-seater next to one of the big picture windows in the lunch area. At this table were two guys from the Computer Operations department. One was as meek and unassuming as could be. The other was known as a cut-up and joke player.
Over the din of the lunch crowd’s jabbering came this rifle shot which was amplified by the plastic contour chair the shooter was sitting in. It reverberated and caught everyone’s attention to the point that the room fell silent. At that point, the cut-up hopped to his feet and shouted, “Dammit, Bill, I’m never going to sit with you again.” Then he stalked out of the room leaving the abashed companion glowing like a traffic light. Obviously innocent of the offense, he nevertheless picked up his tray and slithered out of the area, never to return to the lunch room again.
The offender could be seen in the hallway, laughing like a hyena. It was a noteworthy event that had people talking for weeks, and in years to come someone would say something about it. Anyone who had been in that room that day had that sound and the subsequent drama seared into their brains.
I can hear it still.
I personally like to rip ass as I’m passing by the first class section of the airplane on my way to coach. It makes me grin and grin.
I went to a cocktail party last week–early, to help the host set up. There I was, in my little Audrey Hepburn dress and triple strand of pearls, and a lady handed me a small wheel of Swiss and a knife and actually said, “Would you like to cut the cheese?”
I guess he didn’t read the Smart Girls Rules… JERK! I mean, come on… everyone knows (at least YellowTail does) that one must cover his hole when he farts. Sheesh!
Curse you, Sublight. I came in here to post exaxctly that.
“Why yes… and I’ve warmed up a Munster for you too.”
Funny story Zeldar. Two friends of mine from college played that out as well, the only difference being it occurred in an English Lit class full of young coeds.
After Garner shocked Woodby by loudly blowing him a kiss off the plastic chair and then shouting his name in disgust, the professor asked Woodby if he had a problem.
“No” replied a sheepish Woodby.
“Yes, yes I think you do” said the Prof.
Classic hilarity.
Fantastic.
That rings a bell. Isn’t it in The Mikado?
If you want to know who we are,
We are gentlemen of Accounting:
On many a tray and bar–
On many a screen and keyboard,
We stand lively in our lines:
Our attitude’s queer and quaint–
You’re wrong if you think it ain’t, oh!
If you think we are worked by gasses,
Like a Scottish bagpipe
You don’t understand these things:
It is simply Line etiquette.
Perhaps you suppose my bladder
Can’t blast away all day long?
If that’s your idea, you’re wrong, oh, oh!
If that’s your idea, you’re wrong.
(Stay tuned for later in the scene when NANKI-POO makes his entrance)
“I can see Uranus from my window tonight…” (it’s a real song lyric)
Thank goodness no one shares my bed. Bedfarting could be even worse than linefarting.
I’ m going to be giggling at inappropriate times for the next WEEK and a HALF, and it’ll be ALL YOUR FAULT!!!
Ivor Biggun, no?
Didn’t he do a song called “Bra Size 45” ?
Yeah, he did–I have it on a Dr. Demento compliation. I’m heavily into kultcha
Bow, scrape and tremble before the, dutch oven.
The Thousand Nights and a Night includes a story called “The Historic Fart”. A poor unfortunate, let us call him Abu Hassan, drops one in the marketplace just at one of those awkward times when the whole crowd has fallen silent for no reason, and crimson with shame under a thousand disgusted stares, he sells up and emigrates that night. Years and years later, when he is a very old man, he becomes homesick, and he returns to the city of his birth. There he sees a beautiful palm tree, and he asks a passing maiden how long it has been there. “I do not know,” she says. “I shall ask my mother. Mother, how long has this palm tree stood here?”
And the aged crone answers “Why, daughter, that tree was planted just three years, seven months and fifteen days after Abu Hassan farted in the marketplace.”
