So I am sitting on the train on my way to work waiting for the thing to take off when the urge comes over me. You know, the urge that says you’ve had something to eat the night before that have given you the morning farts. You know it’s going to be one of those mornings the second you throw off the sheets and start to get out of bed. You’re suddenly stopped as a stench rises so foul in the air that it singes your nose hairs and makes you queasy from the bodily gases that have been festering under your comforter over the course of the last six hours. This is why they call it the “Dutch oven,” although I’ve never really understood this reference. Do Dutch baked goods inspire flatulence? Do Dutch bakeries smell like crap? I need to know these things.
So there I am on a train without air conditioning, not a person in sight, other than the homeless guy that’s passed out at the other end of the car, when the urge comes over me. I look around one more time at the empty subway car and figure, “fuck it, not only can I let it go, but I don’t have to worry about the sound it makes”…and as a guy, when you’re not worried about the sound it makes, you make it as loud as possible. So I loosen up my sphincter, give a solid push from the diaphragm and with help of the plastic subway seats, I get some decent audible action.
Sweet, I give it about a six. No wait, what’s that? Wow, with a smell like that, let’s make it an eight. As I’m trying to figure out what I ate last night that could possibly inspire a smell like that, an Indian guy (dots not feathers) walks into the car.
Shit. No way to escape this one. This guy is definitely about to smell the inner workings of my intestines. Actually hold on, there’s no one else on this train and it doesn’t have any A/C, so even if he decides to stay he won’t sit anywhere near me. After all, this is New York City, people value their space when they can get it…
…everyone, except for this asshole.
No joke.
A completely empty train and he sits right next to me.
Is he gay? No, not likely. I don’t know what it is about him, but he’s not giving off a gay vibe.
I glance over to see if he’s pickig up on my freshly deployed air biscuit. Nothing. Not even a nose twitch. The guy is clearly clueless.
Whew. That was a close one. I can’t believe that he doesn’t smell that.
What, what’s that? It’s not my fart anymore, although it’s just as pungent. I think that smells like curry. Yes, that’s definitely curry, but it’s not like he’s holding a bag of leftovers. It was more like the smell of curry after it’s run through one’s system to the point of saturation…so much that it’s coursing through one’s veins. The guy literally smelled like a walking chicken Vindaloo.
Whatever, he’s Indian (dots not feathers), who cares if he smells like my last meal at the Curry Leaf (my favorite Indian restaurant in the city)?
Funny thing is, I’m not even rattled by how close this guy is sitting next to me. I’m actually more surprised at how the smell of curry can counter act the effects of flatulence. Who knew?
NYCDG
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