was it the burrito?
Sometimes I have to ask myself why I do anything. Not in a negative way mind you. In a “try to understand the inner-working of the mind” kind of way. I would ask you why you’re reading this right now, all the decisions in your life that led your eyes to be hurtling left to right across this page, but I’m afraid you’d ask yourself that very question and stop.
Why was I walking in that particular park at that particular time and why did I accuse the man walking a dog in front of me of farting when it was clearly his dog that was the culprit?
The mind is indeed a strange bird.
I was walking about ten feet behind them and the farting was clearly audible and after about five seconds it was on me. There is no mistaking a dog fart. It’s like a punch right in the olfactory bulb. I reeled slightly. Then my mind, without any consultation with the rest of my body, loudly offered the following advice to the pet owner:
“Dude, if you’re going to tear ass, at least give those around you a little warning!”
He turned looking a little embarrassed. With a sheepish grin he explained that it was his dog that farted.
“I’m calling bullshit on that one,” I replied. “Don’t blame your dog if you can’t control your bowels.”
Some people are very thin-skinned and he bristled at the accusation. He got all “Now listen here …” on me but I cut him off.
“You’re a farter and the only reason you keep that dog around is so you can blame it for your farts. What’s worse is that you fart and let other innocent people walk right through it. I bet your dog is ashamed to be seen with you.”
This might be a good time to let you know that the man with the dog stood no less than six feet five inches and weighed in at about two hundred and sixty pounds. All six feet five inches and two hundred and sixty pounds of him started to get agitated as I began to poke him in the chest with my finger.
“You. Are. A. Farter.” Each word punctuated with a sharp poke.
It was like poking a side of beef. I’m guessing he worked out.
See what I mean about the mind being a strange bird?
His fist began to clench and unclench in a manner I knew only too well. For some reason I have an uncanny ability to generate the urge to clench and unclench fists in other people.
“If my dog wasn’t here I’d …” he began but I once again cut him off mid-sentence.
“You’d what? Have nobody to blame your farts on?”
His fist clenched but failed to unclench. I realized he was about to put it to good use and was suddenly very thankful for the Beretta 92 full auto 9mm pistol I had tucked in my belt. I’m not sure why some people immediately leap to violence when they are losing a battle of wits but it never fails to dishearten. One minute I’m having a civil conversation with somebody and the next I’m having to shoot them.
And their dog.
Don’t misunderstand. The dog was terrified of the sound of the gun and had no intentions of harming me. I just felt bad for it and thought that it would like to accompany its owner to heaven or hell or wherever the owner was bound. I, of course, don’t believe in that nonsense but judging from the big gold cross the pet owner was wearing he must have spent at least a few minutes filling the dog’s head with that stuff so I thought it’s better to be safe than sorry.
I read all about the little old lady who found the body later that day and how the police are actively looking for the killer. You can never believe a word you read in the newspapers these days. They said the cause of death was a gunshot wound. That’s just sloppy police work. That’s the easy answer. You and I both know the cause of death was his dog’s flatulence.
Find out why his dog farted and you’ll find out why he died.