I was vacuuming the sanctuary at First Presbyterian Church yesterday afternoon, including the cloth seats of the chairs, when suddenly it hit me: every one of those chairs has had someone fart in it at least once.
How could it be otherwise? Probably multiple farts for most of the chairs, maybe dozens and dozens for some.
You know what that means: every chair has fart particulate embedded in its fabric. Flatus molecules, and they’re bound to be from those particularly noxious silent types, because nobody is going to let rip with a bull roarer in the middle of a sermon. I mean, there’s Pastor Dan, preaching his heart out, when suddenly from the midst of the congregation of the righteous comes a thunderous toot, and you know it’s not Gabriel blowing his horn.
Nope, that ain’t gonna happen. There won’t be any sound, just visual clues. Look for the guy sitting there with a satisfied smirk on his face while his wife shoots him a disgusted look. He’s the one who’s just marinaded his seat with a stealth stinker.
Once this subject enters your mind, it’s hard to get rid of. I spent an hour and a half thinking about it as I made my way with the vacuum through all those chairs. Now it’s your turn. I’ve got it off my chest and am a free man.