Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Experimentally Grotesque

A short story:

Finding my zen space is hard when I’m flatulent. I mean it. Try eating a bean burrito and honing in on your life as your body gurgles uncomfortably. I tried that. It didn’t go so hot. I’m sitting in my yoga class, something good for me to hone my focus or some crap like that, and everyone in the class is of the female variety, and I just can’t sneak one out.

In downward facing dog it happens, I can’t hold it anymore. Just a kaboom-pffffft. One of those monster farts that tells everyone, “I’m loud and I stink. Now you are all going to deal with me!” This is the kind of fart that laughs maniacally and makes your life a sudden sophomoric sitcom. I look around the room as the last of my fart whistles through my asshole and notice obvious signs of disgust and a few giggles. I can’t escape. I can tell the teacher is trying to hide a smile and keep the class under control.

I curse my sphincter. It has one job. To clench tightly in the presence of company. It is the polite muscle. The one that makes manners possible. Then it hits me. The rank smell of a bean burrito festering in my poorly conditioned stomach. My digestive system has been ripped apart by triple burgers with chili, bacon, and extra special sauce, it is a veritable graveyard of all of this country’s rotting filth that we call fast food. The bean burrito may have led the charge out of my anus, but the whole cavalry followed closely behind—forgive the pun.

It smells like a raccoon ate thai food, then got covered in open sores, crawled into the darkest dankest moldiest cave around, and died while scratching its eyes out. The dead raccoon then spontaneously combusted and took the dramatic blowing-up-the-death-star escape out of my rectum. Then it started settling. All the gases, heavy with the scent of a tauntaun’s entrails, succumbed to gravity. They gently waft to my nose, causing my face to contort like Jim Carrey’s. I’m beyond sick.

I am also beyond embarrassment. At this point I am much more concerned that I will get permanent brain damage from this stench. So I focus in on my zen space. I close my eyes; focus on my now very shallow breathing. When I wake up on the bench outside the classroom I am more than a little confused. They later tell me that a gas line ruptured under my mat and that it was seeping through the floor. It’s little comfort that the smell wasn’t all me—everyone still heard me, and if I could have controlled myself a little longer, everything would have been awkwardly acceptable. Needless to say I don’t do yoga anymore.