Posted by: Jeremiah Graves | November 1, 2006

Fabricated Fart

Now, I realize the title may be a bit misleading, but basically I would like the masses who read my blog (yes, both of you) to give me a little shout out if you’ve ever been in this situation, because I can pretty much guess that everyone has.

Here is what happened…

I’m at work and I’m getting a bunch of journals ready to be transferred to the bindery and as you all know journals tend to have glossy covers like any magazine. As such my fingers would rub against the glossy covers while I was tying a stack of them together and the friction of flesh on gloss creates a noise that we all recognize as a “tooter.”

Now being that I didn’t toot, I immediately felt an urge to make sure everyone knows I didn’t, but alas…we all know the rules and as history have proven time and time again…whoever denied did, in fact, supply it. As such my next course of action is to make the same mistake I’ve done a million other times when I’ve been in this situation.

I attempted to recreate the noise, you know, because if you hear it multiple times again and again…it’ll be obvious that I’m not a gaseous mass of doom, but rather that the noise is being caused by something other than an angry colon.

As we all know, once you’ve made a mindless squeaker you cannot replicate that noise to any degree when you begin attempting to do so. As such, I spent the next twenty to thirty minutes feverishly rubbing my fingers across glossy surfaces praying for a similar auditory response, all I got was raw, worn fingers and more strange, wayward glances from the surrounding cubicles.

So now, I’m at a point were I am not only the dude who “let one rip” I’m also the guy who has some obsessive compulsive disorder with rubbing his fingerprints off on the covers of scholarly journals. My impending lack of fingerprints probably insinuates a criminal intent of sorts, they assume that perhaps I’m going to rob the library blind or savagely murder a reference librarian.

But alas, I have no ill-will toward anyone in the workplace. I just don’t want them to think I dropped that fluffy forty-five minutes ago. Now, in an attempt to cover my own tracks by recreating the noise to let everyone know it wasn’t a gasious emission, but rather a simple rubbing sound…I have only further dampened my case for employee of the month and raised the probability of mandatory psychic counseling for all new employees in the forseeable future.

Clearly, it’s time to go to lunch.


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