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Frenchie's story:
Copyright© 1998 by Willie Gaffer
In my many years, I have known several great story tellers. We
can call this one Frenchie. Uncontrollable flatulence was his
problem. I know because I have suffered it. Other than that, he
was one of the most interesting and personable men I have ever
known. Here is one of his stories as he told it to me while sitting
outdoors around a campfire.
I was downtown because I had to see my lawyer about the divorce.
I was amenable to a settlement. I figured she had suffered enough
of my gas attacks and deserved better. It was not her fault, nor
mine. The problem did not occur until after we had been married
for several years. I still blame it on the marinade cabbage we
got in Acheron. I remember she tasted it and said, "Don't
eat this. It's bad." I ate it anyway. I wish I could remember
where that town is.
I had to see my lawyer because I wanted to make sure I got my
dog Fred. She could have everything else but I loved old Fred.
Fred has no problem with my problem. He spends about half of his
life smelling rear ends anyway. He seems to like it. To each his
own!
So, I'm at the legal building in Detroit and my lawyers office
is on the twelfth floor. I have to ride up twelve floors and hold
it in. Things haven't been real bad for a few days so I figure
I can risk it. I stand to the side of the elevator and slide out
as many silent ones as I can before I get on.
It happens that this really attractive woman gets on with me,
along with several other folks. As the elevator goes up, stopping
at every floor, damn it, I get pushed to the back with this woman.
I'm doing the best I can but it's no go. I have to let one. I
figure I can slip out a silent one and no one will know for sure.
Well, I let it slide but it's a squeaker. No doubt about it. I'm
really embarrassed and I turn quickly to see if this woman has
heard it. Just as I turn to look at her, everyone else turns also
and sees me looking at her. And they keep looking - at her.
What was the poor woman to do? Could she insist loudly? "It
wasn't me who farted! It was him." Not likely.
Now if I was an honorable man, I would have done it. I would have
shouted, "No! It wasn't her. I did it. I let the fart."
That would be a perfect world with an honorable me. In fact I
said nothing. I looked at her also. Her face grew crimson under
the scrutiny and she kept her eyes aloft until she could push
to the front and slam the button for the next floor. To her credit
and my shame, she strode off with her head held high. I never
saw her again.
I did get my dog Fred and we are as happy as a man and his dog
could be. I still miss my wife now and then but I understand.
I sure wish I could remember where that town is. If I could find
it I'd move up there. Sort of give them a dose of their own music,
so to speak.
That is the story as I remember it from Frenchie's narration.
It may be true.
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