Somebody farted in class.
Now, this happens occasionally. We’re all human. Normally everybody politely ignores it and we keep going.
But this time the gentleman responsible started giggling.
And that was it.
Once he started laughing, the rest of us didn’t stand a chance.
Some how the conversation turned to what farts smell like.
One woman announced that hers smelled like hamburgers.
The gentleman in front of her said his smelled like roast beef.
Apparently we had an entire barbecue going on.
Then we got into why our own farts never seem quite as offensive as everybody else’s.
Bob and I started reminiscing about the good old days when you could load the kids into the car, roll up the windows, lock them, and let one rip.
A captive audience.
Those were simpler times.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, I noticed Peggy had gotten awfully quiet.
Now, Peggy and I grew up in very different households.
In my family, farts were funny.
In Peggy’s family, farting was practically a criminal offense. Especially at the dinner table.
You could be sent to the bathroom to clean your pants out before you were allowed back among civilized people.
And here she was, all these years later, married to me.
Surrounded by people comparing their farts to various cuts of beef.
I sometimes wonder what goes through that woman’s head.
Actually, I’m probably better off not knowing.