“Every man likes the smell of his own farts.”
- Icelandic Proverb
Goodfellow sat quietly in the middle of the office suite in a distant funk. Florescent light reflected off his bald head as he carefully picked his nose.
Enukidze, the stocky Georgian (country, not state) intern with the lightning mind and winning smile, had just taken the 10th phone call from his wife today. She was worried that he might be dead and, if he were dead, she further worried, who would notify her. Sometimes Enukidze wished he were dead. Suddenly he farted…pifff!...barely audible but Goodfellow heard it.
“That was the fart of a nun!” he shouted to Enukidze.
Enukidze hung his head.
“CUT SOME CHEESE, MAN, let ‘em know you’re a man.”
Enukidze hunched over slightly hoping to bring out his best.
“Erff,” he went.
“That wasn’t even close to a fart!” howled Goodfellow, ‘let me show you how a man farts.” But Goodfellow’s pathetic attempt sounded like a distant train whistle.
“Ha, THAT was no good fart!” Enukidze screamed.
“Did somebody say fart,” asked Neffman, who had just entered the room. Neffman worked next door. He was a musical man. He had taken music lessons most of his early life, had his own rock band in high school, and had leaned to produce farts with a musical tone.
To the astonishment of Goodfellow and Enukidze, he demonstrated:
Fif… fif… fif
Phurrrrt!
BaROOM!
Eeeeow
A OOga…putt..putt
“Amateurs,” sneered Neffman as he walked out of the office.
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