Flatulence and driving do not mix.

I was on a ride with my pal, Chick.  What kind of name is Chick for a guy, you ask?   Well, it’s not.  We met on the beach.  I was collecting shells and he was lying there like a beached whale in the sand all tanned and bloated, tiny speedo.  We struck up a conversation, introduced ourselves and when he got up he was covered head to toe in sand.  He looked like a piece of breaded chicken.  So I called him Chicken Cutlet, he called me Shell.  They stuck.

So Chick and Shell, that’s us, are driving down the highway on a mission to nowhere, maybe for coffee or pizza.  Chick is eating something as usual and I’m riding shotgun which makes me antsy because I love to drive.  He drives an ugly old ’96 Buick that looks more like a suppository than an automobile.  It has a zillion miles on it, it makes a weird noise when you get it over sixty and the power windows don’t work so its sealed up like a box.  A box that looks like a suppository.

The a/c is running tepid, the radio is playing that same Jimi Hendrix song, as if it was the only one he wrote and I’m itching to grab the wheel and stomp the gas pedal from the passenger side because I can’t stand driving under the speed limit on a clear and open highway.

Chick looks over at me and says, “I’m sorry”.

I’m confused.  “For what?” I ask, “Driving too slow or driving a car that looks like a laxative?”

“No, this…”

At that moment there came a sound that was like the apocalyptic ripping of the space time continuum.

It was as if the entire fabric of reality frayed and tore itself to pieces.  Chicken Cutlet emitted a blast of flatulence so powerful and loud that it felt like all four wheels came off the ground.  The windows fogged up and buckled from the change in pressure.

I thought about his diet and immediately tired to roll down the window.  No dice, no power.  I looked over at him with this sort of post-coital glow of satisfaction on his face while my eyes were wide with horror.  Holding my breath, I opened the glove box looking for something to break the window with.  I tried clawing at the top of the window to pull it down.  I had to let my breath out…

…and that’s when it hit me.

If you’ve ever smelled burning rubber, methane and an electrical fire all at once you’re still lucky because it was much worse than that.  The color and temperature of the air changed, the a/c gave out and Chick just sat there with a big smile of gastric relief on his face.

Out of options, I opened the door on the highway.  He reached over and grabbed me thinking I was gonna jump.  The wind pushed against it, Chick pulled against me and I was losing consciousness.  I yelled, “That’s it!  That’s the last time I get in this heap with windows that don’t roll down.  Why don’t you fix that and what the hell do you even eat that makes a smell like that?”

“Oh,” he said, “It’s just a fuse and I don’t know how to change those.”

“Well I do!”  I gasped.

“Huh, who knew?”  That was all he replied with.  Not, “Gee, I didn’t mean to burn the lining of your lungs and make you never want to eat again”.

Thus our mission to nowhere turned into Mission To Autoparts Land where I gave Chick a lesson in simple fuse changes.  “Huh, who knew?” he said again.

Back on the road in the flying laxative with the windows rolled down and that same Rolling Stones song playing Chick looks over at me and says, “I’m sorry.”

“For what, nearly killing me over a .30 cent fuse?”

“No, this…”

The apocalyptic ripping of the space time continuum and the fabric of reality fraying was unleashed again but this time I rode down the highway with my head out the window like a happy puppy not seeing the fast approaching utility pole…

 

Tom Serafini is a writer, illustrator, motivator of dreamers and sometime stand-up comedian residing in Brooklyn, New York.  His first illustrated picture book, Ollie Bug and the Icky Sticky Thing From Space, will be funded through a Kickstarter crowdfunding campaign coming soon.  It’s on the list