I was biking home one lonely night when the urge to fart enveloped my body like a hug from the devil. I tried to hold it in until I got home, but the pressure pushed on my abdomen (stomach? I don’t know science) with a stubborn will. I looked around. It was dark, optimal for obscuring my identity. It was windy, ideal for whisking away unwanted smells. And finally, the street was busy, favorable for any noises that would usually warrant looks in a tiny, quiet room. It was the perfect farting storm.
Never having passed wind on a moving bike, I wasn’t really sure how to go about things. I guess instinct took over as I lifted my butt off the bike seat and the cutest fart came rushing out (it actually wasn’t cute at all, but as a girl I feel obligated to dress up my farts with attractive adjectives). Relieved, I turned around to make sure no one heard. That’s when I saw The Biker. He was no more than three feet behind me, head bent down to gain speed, which put him level with my ass. I whipped my head back around before I could see his reaction. Not only did I just fart in his face, but now it seemed like I purposely turned around to his surprised facial expression. I can safely say I’ve never biked faster to get home in my entire existence. I’ll never know if The Biker felt my fart in his face, but if he did, at least it will teach him to never, EVER tailgate other bikers.