Rights of passage

A friend confessed that he once had the greatest urge to pass wind. But he couldn’t since he was at a social gathering in a banquet and was worried that he would be given away because of the sound or the odour or both. He decided to slip quietly onto the patio which was empty. By now, his face had almost turned purple. Once there, under the starry night sky, he let it out – like a long and arduous sigh it passed from the suppressed confines of his expensive trousers and soared upwards into the inky blackness. Bits of it, like spray from the surf, even dissipated into the nearby bushes. The passage of wind was accompanied by the loudest sound. It began as a gasp and turned into a squeak as though someone was forcibly trying to pass a great amount of air through a small orifice. It then graduated into a deep bellow. Almost like the sound of a trumpet hitting the bass notes. It rose in crescendo – like the neighing of a horse before finally turning into diminutive intermittent little emissions – like a truck blowing its horn – BOP BOP BOP. After about four to five such bursts, it settled quietly into a hiss and stopped altogether. He turned once his little one-man orchestra came to an end and walked into the party with an ear-to-ear grin. “Sometimes,” he said, “you have to play to empty seats.”


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