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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
« May I Be Excused to Commit Hara-Kiri, Please? | Main | What I Imagine Hollywood Is Like »
Hey, folks. Sorry about abandoning you yesterday, but I decided at the last minute to go try out some new material at a comedy gig. No film for this one, but most of the bits went over pretty well, so you'll probably see them soon enough in the clips for the upcoming shows this month. You know -- if you're into that sort of thing.
Anyway, I got home way late from the show, and in no position to whip up an entry before bedtime. And besides, you know the old saying: 'Friends don't let friends blog exhausted and tipsy.' Well, last night, I was my own best friend.
(No, no, ya filthy pervert -- not that kind of 'my own best friend'. Jeez, you people never stop, do you?
And anyway, I said I was tired and beery. I wasn't equipped to be anyone's 'best friend' at that point. I couldn't have even just laid there and sweat without dozing off. Just not possible.)
The good news, though, is that in going last night, I found something to write about now. That's called synergy, people. It's all 'circles in circles', and shit like that. Very zen. Really.
Anyway, here's the thing from last night -- I had one of those 'relationship-changing moments' just before the show. Unfortunately, it wasn't a relationship-improving moment, by any stretch. On the bright side, it also wasn't much of a relationship to begin with. Perhaps I should explain.
So, I was sitting in the audience, waiting for the show to start.
(At this place, sometimes the comics sit in the audience, because... well, frankly, there usually isn't an audience. Twenty or thirty comics come together to hang out, perform, and sit around not laughing at each others' jokes. Ah, good times, good times.
Honestly, most people are pretty nice out there. You won't get any sort of wild, raucous laughter -- not without snarking on other goofball comics in the room, anyway -- but the majority of comics are... how to put it? 'Moderately politely encouraging', maybe? That's pretty close. And a little depressing, but that's how it goes. We ain't playing the Improv here.)
So, I was sitting in the audience section, on a booth seat near the back of the room. And I was sitting next to, and talking to, an acquaintance, this guy who's also in the standup comedy class I'm taking. He's a nice guy -- he always seems very polite and thoughtful; just a regular, down-to-earth good guy. Got that? Good.
So, we were sitting there chatting. There were other people in the vicinity, sitting further away or milling around, but no one was within maybe five feet of us.
There was a lull in the conversation, and that's when the moment occurred. Specifically, that's when I smelled -- no, no, 'smelled' is the wrong word; let's say 'was bombarded by' -- a horrific, rancid, eye-watering, toe hair-curling odor. A fart. A monstrous fart. The great-grandpoppy of all farts. I nearly fell out of my seat. Honest. It was bad.
Now, at that point, these three thoughts came to me:
First, I thought, 'Oh man -- did I do that? Holy smoking skid marks, Batman!'
But I reflected on the last thirty seconds or so, and determined that there'd been no ass leakage on my end. Or, more to the point, from my end. So no, it wasn't me. I would have felt something that heinous coming out of me.
So then, I thought, 'Well, shit, then -- it must have been this guy, right? There's no one else around.'
But that didn't seem right, somehow. Like I said, he seems like a cool, upstanding guy. And usually, the 'upstanding' ones are not the 'public pants-shitting' ones. That's just my experience, is all I'm saying.
And, to be fair, there were other people within range to float air biscuits our way. Barely, but they were there. And what combination of hellacious diet and superhuman sphincter muscles they'd have to possess to get that ridiculous stench all the way over to us... well, I can't even imagine. But still, the possibility was there, remote though it was.
And that's when the third thought occurred to me: 'Hey, if I didn't do it, and this guy didn't do it, then somebody else did it. But -- but! -- he must be wilting in this funky ass stench, too... and if he didn't do it, then he must think I did it! Bitches!'
Because you see, folks, contrary to my friend there, I have to believe that I am not the kind of guy that people would have a hard time believing would let loose a ripper in a public place. Which is not to say that I would, intentionally, dammit. I'm just saying that people probably would believe that I would.
And that's when I realized that no good could possibly come from this situation, and that the relationship with this new friend of mine would never be the same again.
For you see, one of two things had just happened. Either this guy had stealthily, without warning or apology, spewed forth a prodigious pootie right in the middle of our conversation, knowing that the funk would find its unholy way to me and make me wish for a quick and odorless death. Or -- and this is far, far worse -- this guy was thinking exactly the same about me.
And there's no fricking way out of it, either. You can't say, 'Wow, do you smell that?' We all know the 'smeller's the feller', right? You can't even take one for the team and say, 'I'm so sorry -- excuse me, please! How rude of me!' Because you can't really know that the guy didn't do it himself -- and people, there's nothing in the world that screams 'Wacko!' than taking credit for someone else's fart. To his face. That's just goddamned crazy.
So, we sat there, and suffered in silence, and let the moment sink in. I can't know exactly what he was thinking -- all I know is that we'll never think of each other quite the same way again. And we can never speak of the ordeal. And that might be the funniest thing that happened at the show last night.
Not in a 'ha-ha' funny way, you understand. Just... funny. Bad funny. Meh.
Possibly, you could've said something along the lines of 'Whooooa! You tried the chili, huh?' That way, you are either saying I know you did it, or you are saying, excuse me, I have chili back up...
I feel your pain. The "he who smelt it dealt it" rule really prohibits you from commenting. Unfortunately, airbombs can sometimes travel a distance and linger a while. If you have ever been to a supermarket where some supermom has decided to lay a landmine in the aisle and you happen to walk into it, you will know exactly what I am talking about.
Maybe instead of saying anything, you should have lit a match.
I've been insituations like that, too. I used to have a friend who would do that all the time, and man, they were RANK, and he never, ever apologised or said anything. As if I couldn't smell that RANK in the room when it was just the two of us. Gross.
I also nominated you in the BoB awards.
When I was in elementary school, these were the rules for farts:
1) If person A says that he/she smells a fart, person B is obligated to exclaim, "He who smelt it, dealt it!"
2) It is person A's moral and social obligation to vehemently reply, "He who denied it, applied it!"
And so the two were locked in eternal combat, never determining for a third-party person who farted. Which, of course, was the point anyway, since it was the third-party person who did it.
LOL! The "smellers the feller" and wackos who take credit for other people's farts had me rolling!!!!
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"prodigious pootie"--hehe! I do love me some alliteration!