It’s a Sunday and I downed some whipped cream. Straight from the nozzle like an animal. Like somebody who knows exactly what sin is. This is good and clean and fun but I’m lactose-intolerant and that sweet sweet heavy cream gives me some sleepy, sloppy farts—some creepy, crappy farts. It’s like Dr. Seuss said: “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes,” and, well, I got gas in my caboose Mr. Seuss and she’s ripping loose like stinky one-liners during amateur hour at the comedy club. You heard that thunder on Sunday? Nope. That was my rear end belting and swan-songing like the prima donna’s understudy.
Although editor emeritus Emma Specter ’15 is the undeniable fart queen of The Thrill (just look at her staff photo), I think I’ve proven at least once that I know a thing or two about embarrassing butt noises. I’ve felt those tummy rumblies as my Peirce dinner uncomfortably works its way through my digestive tract during my God-knows-how-long seminar. I’ve tried to ignore the slight growl that escapes from my lower pelvis every time I unsuccessfully divert a forthcoming fart from my general cheek area. What I’m trying to say is, I’m an everyman’s man. I know what it’s like to live in fear. And I’m here to help my fellow men and women escape from the ensnarement of social convention. I’m going to teach you how to fart in public. After you read this, not only will you fart at will; you will FART WITH CONFIDENCE. If that doesn’t get you in a tizzy, I don’t know what will.