At least for me they are. I learned this as a young child growing up with two brothers. I learned it more when I inadvertently ripped one in front of a guy friend in high school and subsequently almost died of humiliation. And I learned it even more when I had children. Especially when I got a smartphone, and some twelve-year old invented– and grew rich off of– the very first fart app.
My three children begged and pleaded with me to anoint my technologically advanced device with a free, downloadable fart app. They insisted it would help make their lives complete, and indeed, it did provide endless entertainment when we were stuck in traffic or waiting for my husband to finish a level on Borderlands so they could watch Netflix. I did not realize at the time that fart apps, by their very nature, are just as humiliating and spontaneous as real farts. Allow me to elaborate.
Around the time I bought said smartphone and downloaded said fart app, I had also just become a trainer at the restaurant where I worked. I was embarking on the first growth of my career, and I was really excited to be teaching someone else how to be a paid servant rather than simply being one myself. My first dinner shift with my first trainee was going really well. We were busy enough to make money but not so busy that it would scare the new guy shitless, and most of my customers were friendly and in a good mood. The kitchen was popping, the temperamental chef had yet to hit his mid-shift, bipolar freak out, and no one was complaining yet. Ideal training environment.
The one thing that irked me was the fact that my shoes were unreasonably squeaky. I could have understood it if the floor were wet (but it was carpet) or my shoes were new (but they weren’t). I could not, for the life of me, find the cause behind the embarrassingly loud, squeaky sounds my shoes were making. On carpet. So I shrugged it off, dismissed it the four or five times my trainee wondered aloud about it, and continued my natural flow of greeting, order-taking, order-ringing, and food delivery.
At one point in the evening, after an hour of squeaky shoes, I realized that my tables were noticing when I passed by and giving me strange glances. I decided that something had to be done. I squeaked into the kitchen, trainee on my heels, and whipped my shoes off. There was no apparent cause for the squeaking, which only occurred when I was walking, naturally.
As I slid my feet back into my shoes, I suddenly had a horrible and almost unthinkable realization. It wasn’t my shoes. It could only be one thing. I discreetly pulled my phone from my pocket and glanced down at the screen to find that the fart app had activated itself. Due to the fact that it was set off by motion (like gently shaking the phone), my walking had basically become a continuous fart concert. My tables hadn’t been disturbed by my squeaky shoes– they thought I’d been vociferously crop-dusting them all evening.
I didn’t realize my trainee was standing over my shoulder until he pointed at the little, bent-over stick figure on my phone screen with the fart cloud spouting from its ass. “What’s that?” he asked, understandably confused and slightly disturbed.
“That, my friend,” I replied, “is the story of my life. It’s all just one, big fart.” And with that, I turned my phone off, pocketed it, and continued the rest of the shift with no further explanation or startling fart sounds. The most important lesson my trainee learned that night is that, sometimes, ya just gotta roll with it. Even when “it” is an hour of obnoxiously loud, public farts.