One of the things about living in a tiny little town is that when there's a bug, everyone gets it. This month's featured town ailment is farting. We don't know if it's some kind of gastro thing or somethin' in the water, but hoooooo lordy it smells bad. We're trying to avoid enclosed public spaces, because unless you're carrying a gas mask you can quickly become overwhelmed by the unfamiliar pong from the dark niches of your neighbours' digestive systems.
At first the public etiquette was to try to slowly ease the fart out, then oh so casually move away from the stink zone and hope that some poor innocent victim would inadvertently enter the Fart Blame Area. Then, as familiarity bred a grudging forbearance, you would just apologise in a "Oh my goodness that's never happened before, terribly sorry" sort of way, perhaps flapping your hand to help dispel the Smell Cloud. Now we are moving into a shameful normalisation phase where you barely even notice either your own or your neighbour's gagging expulsions.
"Hey Baz, owyergoinorright? Toooot."
"PhhhhtBLEP yer orright owyergoin?"
Gary let off a virtual orchestra of hideous wind noises this morning and I threatened to take him to the vet to be euthanased. Sure, it was hilariously funny last night, and the night before, but contrary to what many of you might believe, farting can actually lose its comedy value after about the millionth time.
I think it's something in the town water, so today I'm going to go and stock up on evil plastic water from the roadhouse. I'm still debating whether or not to buy enough for the dogs and Smokey, who are also letting off big nasties every few minutes; the house actually smells permanently of Dog Fart.
So it you happen to be travelling to Meeka, roll up your windows, don't stop, and for god's sake don't light any matches.
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