Harry
CibbuanoThe date who couldn’t stop farting
September 21st 2006 00:46
I was chatting to one of my nurse friends the other day. When talking to a nurse you’ll find that the majority of your chit chat will tend to revolve around odd bodily functions or fluids. Urine, snot, nasty STDs, semen, pus… its all guaranteed subject matter with an off-duty nurse. Last nights conversation was no different and I was reminded of one of my most memorable first and only dates I ever had. It all happened back in the day when I was a young uni gal.
I had just moved out of home and was living in the hub of alternative student life, Newtown (in Sydney). It was a really cool area, I’d just finished school and moved out from my safe Liberal haven in the North Shore. Everything my parents and neighbours feared and dreaded was in Newtown. Dole bluggers, druggies and assorted worthless poor scum could be found on its streets. As a adventurous youth that didn’t quite fit the conservative mould, Newtown was a breathe of fresh air.
The other thing that Newtown harboured was vegans. I had never met anyone who lived off sticks and grass before. Setting up camp in Newtown, I soon got to know a few of them and their less radical cousins, the vegetarians. They seemed harmless enough and coming from a typical Euro ‘meat meat and would you like meat with that’ kind of family, dating a vegan was a rebellious temptation I just couldn’t resist. This is where Mike came into the equation. He was studying liberal studies at university and on weekends he’d get dressed up as a koala, tote a big white bucket and collect money for I presume endangered koalas. We met at some random house party over a bong. My lungs were still relatively virginal and getting stoned with a koala was one hell of a headfuck. “A talking koala?... Damn this shit really is good.” We decided to do dinner and hit the local pubs later that week.
I remember getting a funny whiff when we first met outside Newtown Station on Saturday night. The place was crowd and Newtown Station isn’t the most sanitary of environments so I didn’t think much of it at the time. A worst some passing commuter let of some steam. We headed towards one of the vegetarian eateries on King St and as we strolled along that odd whiff would occasional rear its ugly head. It was a particularly foul odour, very distinct that would just come and go as we shuffled along. Had I inadvertently stepped in a doggie deposit? I was getting a little self conscious and assumed an uber sexy stomping gait to shake the shit off my shoe.
Over dinner I realized that something was decidedly wrong. No dog shit could smell that bad, not even the spicy aromas could mask the pungent gas. By dessert I was about ready to call in the medics for an oxygen mask. Mike on the other hand didn’t even seem to notice. Could Mike, the charming Koala hugger be dropping some lethal ozone depleting methane bombs? I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Surely he was just being polite and ignoring what ever that smell was. I wonder if he thinks it is coming from me?
The next port of call was a few beers at the Marly. The spicy meal and beer combination really let the house rip and my suspicions were to be confirmed. A few beers under the belt and Mike’s discreet gaseous deposits soon became music to my ears. I slowly watched scores of patrons relocate to a safer distance from our biohazardous area. Six beers later and Mike was practically doing the pull my finger trick. He’d be mid-sentence and his arse would trumpet like a call to war.
That experience turned me off vegans for awhile. I always approached them with caution after that episode. Sure it just might have been one of those days, but I could never erase the term windbag whenever I talked Mike after that date.
I had just moved out of home and was living in the hub of alternative student life, Newtown (in Sydney). It was a really cool area, I’d just finished school and moved out from my safe Liberal haven in the North Shore. Everything my parents and neighbours feared and dreaded was in Newtown. Dole bluggers, druggies and assorted worthless poor scum could be found on its streets. As a adventurous youth that didn’t quite fit the conservative mould, Newtown was a breathe of fresh air.
The other thing that Newtown harboured was vegans. I had never met anyone who lived off sticks and grass before. Setting up camp in Newtown, I soon got to know a few of them and their less radical cousins, the vegetarians. They seemed harmless enough and coming from a typical Euro ‘meat meat and would you like meat with that’ kind of family, dating a vegan was a rebellious temptation I just couldn’t resist. This is where Mike came into the equation. He was studying liberal studies at university and on weekends he’d get dressed up as a koala, tote a big white bucket and collect money for I presume endangered koalas. We met at some random house party over a bong. My lungs were still relatively virginal and getting stoned with a koala was one hell of a headfuck. “A talking koala?... Damn this shit really is good.” We decided to do dinner and hit the local pubs later that week.
I remember getting a funny whiff when we first met outside Newtown Station on Saturday night. The place was crowd and Newtown Station isn’t the most sanitary of environments so I didn’t think much of it at the time. A worst some passing commuter let of some steam. We headed towards one of the vegetarian eateries on King St and as we strolled along that odd whiff would occasional rear its ugly head. It was a particularly foul odour, very distinct that would just come and go as we shuffled along. Had I inadvertently stepped in a doggie deposit? I was getting a little self conscious and assumed an uber sexy stomping gait to shake the shit off my shoe.
Over dinner I realized that something was decidedly wrong. No dog shit could smell that bad, not even the spicy aromas could mask the pungent gas. By dessert I was about ready to call in the medics for an oxygen mask. Mike on the other hand didn’t even seem to notice. Could Mike, the charming Koala hugger be dropping some lethal ozone depleting methane bombs? I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Surely he was just being polite and ignoring what ever that smell was. I wonder if he thinks it is coming from me?
The next port of call was a few beers at the Marly. The spicy meal and beer combination really let the house rip and my suspicions were to be confirmed. A few beers under the belt and Mike’s discreet gaseous deposits soon became music to my ears. I slowly watched scores of patrons relocate to a safer distance from our biohazardous area. Six beers later and Mike was practically doing the pull my finger trick. He’d be mid-sentence and his arse would trumpet like a call to war.
That experience turned me off vegans for awhile. I always approached them with caution after that episode. Sure it just might have been one of those days, but I could never erase the term windbag whenever I talked Mike after that date.
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I love your work and this is good. Listen my sweet, when it comes to men, what you see, is generally what you get, better to know up front, don't you think?
I think it must be harder for you men, what's your view on it?
*lol* sounds like one helluva nite!
My professor once told me that if you want to be funny, write about life, it's weirder than fiction - and funnier, you have certainly proved that.
Keep 'em coming.
envirowarrior