I think everyone has a particular, consistent style when it comes to anal audio.
Seriously. I know it’s gross, but think about it and then think about your loved ones. My guess is that it’s inherent but not necessarily hereditary. Perhaps we’re sitting on a new biometric measure?
For example, as a child I’d often sit at the kitchen table to eat my pb&j, minding my own biz. My evil dad would quietly float by – in one door and out the other. Seconds later, I’d face an altered state of reality with the sting of his stinker impairing all five senses. Staggering and fighting for survival, I’d barely be able to make out his laughter from the other end of the apartment. His pacing was the best, bless his soul.
My dad’s style? Extreme stealth, super smell.
My own flatulence is just smelly. Every time. I’m not the kind of guy that can secretly let a small one slip in public or while riding in a vehicle of any kind. They always smell like the grim reaper’ll be popping by any second. Sometimes it scares me.
My style? Smothering stench with a touch of moist.
Others I know house super mega-colons with incredible capacity – simply designed for mass. You’d have no idea by looking at them that they could fart for five days straight with a blast radius of thirteen city blocks. Pure volume and force.
Then there are those, such as my own mother, who hide and repress their gas with ridiculous euphemisms (fluff? c’mon mother!) or secret getaways to the bathroom. This is not necessary, it’s a natural occurrence, but…
I’m not trying to suggest that farting is a shameless practise. It’s full of shame. SHAME. You should never force anyone to be intimate with your gas unless a) they’re a pet and you’re doing scientific research (animal expressions are fascinating) or b) they’re a loved one who you’re required to torture such as a sibling, child or partner.
Letting one rip among friends or co-workers is never a good idea, I promise you will become alienated. Don’t do it. Ever.