You see, I’ve been withholding my own perilous poofs for 41 agonizing years, and at this point I’m desperate to try anything. Scientific tests have proved that women fart about half a liter of gas each per day. At this pull-my-finger-rate I’ll soon be mistaken for a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.
Imagine this blind date: He meets me at the neighborhood Barnes and Noble – that place so noted for its silence and pomposity – where all flatulence seems to gather inhibited but ready to riot. There’d be no need for words: His pick-up line could be a silent but classic “Provolone” cheese cut meeting my own expelled effulgence in a piquant question mark. The scent of our mingled passion would spill into the inevitable crowded elevator…
Then the relationship would get serious. He would move in, and our feculent would marry the domestic with the baritone bathtub variety. As we grew old together, our hair would go grey, our wrinkles deepen and our melded gases settle into a sweet, comfortable, silent-but-deadly style. Maybe the porch swing we’d rock together as we gazed at the sunset would shake with some good hearty rumbles. “Our song” could be that one that goes You fill up my senses…
BUT WHY? Why are we women so terrified of being…human?
Ladies: Forget burning the bras – it’s high time to stand and be counted as bimbos eager to Ban the Beano and blurt out our own Emancipation Proclamation! Surely, The Second Bacterial Wave is at hand! Surely, Gloria Steinem herself in her lifetime has released some “Revolution from Within.”
Give the bovines a break! Grant the family dog, innocent of all offensive charges, a reprieve! Raise your bowls of beans and pitchers of beer high and stake your claim in the annals of history! Only we can – and should – win this battle: After all, the studies have shown that women’s farts are more highly concentrated than men’s!
SO LET ‘ER RIP! Fear flatulence no more! Freedom is ours for the taking! Can’t you just…smell it?