For Vomhof. Breaking Down Stereotypes and Feral Children.

Well it was an interesting ride home from the first annual Bill Hicks day in Austin Texas. I, purely by chance, discovered a new and easy way to break down stereotypes while on the train back to Chicago. Attempting to sleep across two chairs, I found myself in that state just between dreams and consciousness, and much to my chagrin, for a brief second I thought I was at home in my own bed. And in that brief second, a slight grin came to my face, and I farted.

This particular gaseous emittance was a real go-getter. Definitely wanted to make the most out of its brief time on this world. I regained consciousness just as it said “hello!” to my fellow passengers.

“Ssslllpppbbbbtttt.”

Well I did what any sane man would do at that point…I pretended I was still asleep. At least there is some painfully small amount of dignity in the inability to control one’s bodily functions while sleeping. Unfortunately, listening to the four year old kid behind me vainly attempt to stifle his giggling, made me realize my subterfuge was all for not. Asleep or awake, I would no longer be the long-haired guy, or the liberal-looking guy, I was the guy who farted on the train.

If it weren’t for this child, a child I might add who at four, had yet to scream out an identifiable word, but was still intimately aware of the social ramifications of passing gas; it wouldn’t have been a big deal. I would’ve pretended to forget, every adult who heard me would’ve pretended to forget. Everything would have been peachy.

But no, little Jeremy knew he had me. I was his little plaything for the rest of the 30-hour trip, and he and his stellar lack of vocabulary, knew it. Jeremy spent the rest of his joyous ride sitting behind me kicking my chair, despite his mother blandly asking him to stop.

“The man is reading,” she said, but I know what she was really thinking, “Don’t kick his chair too hard son, he may fart again.”

So I sat in humiliation for the rest of the trip with Jeremy’s foot in the small of my back, listening to him make fart sounds for the amusement of the rest of the passengers.

The only thing that seemed to woo his attention away from torturing me was any unscheduled stop. Every time we had a delay, I would listen to him scream “Go Taaaaa,” “Go Taaaa!”

Which according to his mother meant “go train.”

I was so sure it meant “kill me Eric, I’m four, my mom is white trash, and I can’t even speak an intelligible fucking word yet,” but I guess I was mistaken.

Anyway, the real lesson here is the transcendental power of flatulence to overcome humanity’s brutish and common prejudices. If you are sick to death of being seen as the lawyer in the suit, the hippie with the hair, or whatever stereotype you may have fallen into, just find your way onto some means of public transportation and fire out a big one. Those people will never look at you the same again. Oh yeah, by the way, the kid as he got off the train in Chicago, walked by me, farted, and laughed. I shit you not.

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About wilsonericthomas

I will come back here and type something witty soon... (repeat 100 times.)
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