Friends of ours got married Saturday, and the reception was held at a venue overlooking the water, spanning enough distance that we could watch not one, but two town’s fireworks displays when we took a dancing break on the patio. It was the perfect night out — wine, appetizers, good friends, a yummy candy bar.
But sometime in between Shout and Get Low (sadly, I forgot my boots with the fuuurrr), it hit me.
Like, literally, hit me.
The stench. The smell. The omigodsomeonetotallyFARTEDonthedancefloor smell that seems to always happens at weddings.
I don’t know if it’s because people are drinking and eating rich food that causes it, or because the offender thinks, “Well, hey. I’m in a large group. No one will know it’s me!” and just lets it rip, but people, UGHHHH.
Here’s what happens when someone farts on a crowded dance floor: It’s true. No one knows who did it. But everyone is hot and the air is heavy and the smell just stays there. And if you’re anywhere under 5’8″ then you’re pretty much screwed, because the smell will get trapped in between shoulders and suit jackets and no matter what you do, you won’t be able to escape it.
Throw in the cocktails you’ve already had and the three (ok, four) bacon-wrapped scallops you just ate and you’ll be dragging yourself off the dance floor in a gag-induced stupor.
Because of course it’s not your average, run-of-the-mill, every day fart. No. It’s like, the mothership of all farts. The fart that birthed baby farts, who spawned grand-baby farts, who all decided to get together for a grand old family reunion right there in the middle of the dance floor FARTS. Mr. and Mrs. Farty Fart Fart.
It’s not just weddings. I feel like this happens at any place a large group exists. I remember it happening in college at parties or clubs. In bars, at concerts. Under the cloak of secrecy, these farters are living the high life.
I call foul.
FOUL! (Ha. Get it? Foul? Hahaha.)
Here’s my PSA for all those farters: if you wouldn’t rip one if you would be caught, don’t rip one when you won’t be caught. Just move aside to the edge of the dance floor. Pretend you’re doing some cool new move or something. Or step out for some “fresh air” and come back relieved and non-toxic.
Please. OH PLEASE.
My singed nose hairs beg you.