Some Questions For The Man Who Let One Go On My Train

Some Questions For The Man Who Farted On My Train

I was out of it this morning. You ever have those days where you feel disconnected from the world around you, like you’re too far in your own head while life flows just past you? That’s how I felt on the train leaving my gym. I had my hood on and my headphones in, and my mind was preoccupied with all the shit I have to get done this week, along with whether or not I had frostbite on my ears from forgetting to wear a beanie in January. I wasn’t paying too much attention to my surroundings or living in the present.

Until, all of a sudden, I was. I was snapped back to reality abruptly by a smell so foul, I genuinely thought I was in ground zero for a bio-warfare dirty bomb. My nose attempted to close involuntarily before realizing the human body was not built in such a way. My eyes began to water and I stood up and ripped off my hood, desperately trying to get some fresh air into my lungs before I collapsed on the train. A guy farted in my face, and I have some questions I want to ask him.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I know this isn’t a question that can be answered, but I feel the need to ask it anyway. It can be hard to keep up with all the rules of public transportation, but this should be one that you follow instinctively. I’m not asking much of you. I live in the real world. I know, just like everyone poops, that everyone farts. And I know that holding a fart in can, at times, be uncomfortable or even painful. But on a crowded train? In a place where everyone is already awkwardly jammed into a sardine can of humanity, breathing in each other’s coffee breath and body odors, you decided to add a little garnish of your own? This isn’t even just a public transportation rule or a common sense rule; this is a biblical rule.

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” That’s the golden fucking rule. You don’t murder because you wouldn’t want to be murdered, you don’t steal because you don’t want your shit stolen, and goddamn it, you don’t fart in someone’s face on the fucking train.

You couldn’t have moved your asshole further from my face?

At this point, I’ve realized that you’re not someone who thinks, empathizes, or cares about others. You’re a lone wolf, a man who only watches out for his own interests. Whatever, enjoy your life of shitty solitude. But really? Knowing that you were about to exorcise a demon, you couldn’t have, at the very least, shifted position so you didn’t fart directly into my open mouth? Come on, man. I took a deep breath right as you unleashed your foul smell, and I can still feel fecal particles in my lungs. I’ve brushed my teeth three times since that fateful moment, and I can still taste poop in my mouth. I’m pretty sure I have pink eye, and it’s all because you were too lazy to even rotate your hips 30 degrees.

Why me?

While I’m directing this question at you, I know you have no answer. You didn’t choose me, because that would take a level of thought that you, frankly, do not have. You let squeakers slip out of your loose butthole with arbitrary abandon, and I just happened to be the victim of circumstance this time. Because of this, I must reiterate – Why me, God?

I’m a good person. I do good things. I know I’ve been an asshole to people in my life, but I usually feel bad about it. Is it because I haven’t been to synagogue in five years? Is it because of the stripper incident at my fraternity retreat in college? Are you still mad that I lost my virginity to my then-girlfriend’s best friend? I know that was a dick move, but it’s been over a decade. Please stop punishing me. I’m not a warlord who uses child soldiers to spark genocide. I didn’t deserve this.

What do you eat?

Dude, you need to see a dietitian, or a doctor, or possibly an exorcist. What you unleashed on that train was more than just a bad fart, it was demonic. Laced within the fragrance of rotten Indian food and three-day-old protein powder was a hint of something more. Something evil. The scent of brimstone and fire wafted into my nostrils; as though your asshole was a portal to hell, and when you farted, I’m 90% sure I heard the screams of dying souls echo in my ears. But seriously, you’ve got to change your diet.

I’m no stranger to bad farts. I’m constantly on a high-protein diet for #gainz purposes. I’ve let loose some doozies in my life, some so bad that my girlfriend is constantly on the verge of breaking up with me as a result. But never in my life have I smelled something as atrocious as that fart. I once crashed an ATV into a pile of human sewage (fuck Mexico and their disregard for basic plumbing systems), and that smell was preferable to the gag-inducing stench you unleashed on me. I hope you end up being the first-ever person to be charged with assault with a deadly smell. I hope the CTA suspends your train pass and you have to walk everywhere. I hope the government makes you wear a biohazard sticker on your ass so that no matter how hard you deny it, everyone knows it was you who supplied it.

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Nick Arcadia

The opposite of a life coach. Email or DM me if you want some bad advice:

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