Farting in the Office for Beginners

You might think that passing gas is a normal, natural bodily function. But if it was both normal and natural we wouldn’t call it “farting.”

Trish, Assistant to the Sr. VP of Human Resources

From: Trish in HR
Subject: Farting in the Office for Beginners

Last week’s unscheduled fire alarm, we now know, was pulled by Rita Foster, who, by the way, is no longer with the company. Even though she had only been with us a few days, we wish her well in her next job, assuming she finds one.

It's probably useful to remind everyone that pulling a fire alarm without reasonable cause is grounds for dismissal.

Here’s a handy chart to help us all understand what is and isn’t “reasonable cause” for pulling the fire alarm:

Smoke seen in the building. A bad smell, like someone farted.
Flames seen in the building. A bad smell, like someone farted.

Hoping to avoid a repeat of the unnecessary loss of productivity during the building evacuation, leadership asked the Human Resources team to offer guidelines on how to pass gas (i.e., “fart”) in the office.

Multiple copies of this classic work are available in the HR library.

How to fart in the office

I want everyone reading this to know that I had to do a lot of research on this topic because I honestly don’t have this problem. I don’t pass gas (i.e. “fart”) as far as I know. It is just not part of my biology. I can’t explain it other than to say that I don’t fart. I mean pass gas. And I don’t. Ever.

But here is what I learned in my research.

Don’t fart in the office

If possible, save up your colon gas for when you get a chance to step outside, preferably alone, and fart in the wind when no one is around. I know the homeless guys who sleep next to the building probably won’t appreciate this, but they stink to high heaven already so too bad homeless jobs.

Pros to this approach:

  • As long as no one is within ear shot, you can’t ever be blamed for farting outside.


  • That disgusting smell may linger on your person. (Better to not fart, I say.)

Fart in the lobby

The doors to the outside and the very high ceiling in the lobby means that the Pooh-gas from your ass will dissipate quickly. In the case where the stench lingers, I know the security guys who guard the doors won’t appreciate this, but I’m pretty sure they don’t shower every day so too bad.
Pros to this approch:

  • There is a lot of cross-traffic in the lobby so if you can squeeze one out quietly, there will be plenty of other people to blame, and the chance that you are blamed is slim.


  • Donny the security guard may harass you about something sports related, or a discussion of his favorite coney dog, whatever that is. (Also, I think Donny farts a lot.)

Fart in the basement

The lower-level does not have great ventilation, but there are more walkers down there than a zombie apocalypse so the air is constantly churned. It’s possible to join the parade, slip out a bit of gas, and duck down one of the side halls and up the stairs before they know what hit them. Or so I’m told.

Pros to this approach:

  • If you time your breaking of the wind an easy escape up the stair well, you can drop a mustard gas bomb and no one will blame you.


  • There are a lot of I.T. Contractors who work in the lower level so just stepping out of the elevator down there can make you think you are trapped in a porta-potty at the State Fair on the night of the country-western concert.
These are actually Fart Inspectors who wear these suits and masks so that they inhale nothing but pooh-gas in order to try to identify the culprit.

Farting in the office myths and fallacies

There’s a lot of bad advice drifting around the internet on how to fart in the office. The worst of that advice hangs around like a Dutch Oven about to explode, so here are some quick tips that will hopefully keep the air in the office freshly scented.

“Crop Dusting” – the technique of walking down an aisle and leaving a trail of Pooh-gas behind you was popularized by airline stewards, but it doesn’t work in an office setting. People in cubicles are painfully aware of everyone coming and going because most of you (our monitoring software proves) spend far too much time shopping or reading gossip columns. They’ll be able to connect bad smells to recent pedestrians with the first whiff of Pooh-gas.

“Fart in the Restroom Stall” – Although restrooms are meant for bad smells and waste products I’d rather not discuss, none of us should actually be doing our business at work. I like to leave my problems at home, and you should too. (Recent upgrades to our security cameras and ID card readers allow us to track how much time is spent in restrooms, so you should do your best to only do company business at work.)

“Fart where you sit” – Some people believe that passing gas in their cubicle is the safest route because the smell has no place to go but up to the ceiling. Unfortunately, as was the case for Rita, her Pooh-gas spread like a miasma from the swamp and soon all her cubicle neighbors were brought to tears. In fact, Charlie Jones’s asthma was triggered, leading to his collapse in the hallway. Rita, thinking she had a chance to use his illness as a cover, chose to pull the fire alarm to evacuate the building, and escape detection. Luckily, the security camera footage revealed the distress Rita’s face in the moments leading up to, during, and after the incident. 

Nope. It won't smell like that.

What happens when you fart in the office

I’ve watched the security footage several times and here is what happens when you fart in the office:

  • I can tell you that the look on Rita's face went from concerned to perplexed as she most likely was stricken with colon pressure (which, again, I never experience).
  • Then there is a moment of relief that is probably when Rita passed gas in her cubicle.
  • But just seven seconds later, a look of horror spreads across her face as she no doubt caught a whiff of her stinky Pooh-gas. 

You might think that passing gas is a normal, natural bodily function. But if it was both normal and natural we wouldn't call it "farting."

What happens when you get caught farting in the office

The security footage that captured Rita's fart also captured the chain reaction that ensued:

  • Morgan Johnson in the cubicle next to Rita's stands up and looks around, perplexed and concerned
  • Kylie Brown in the cubicle katty-corner to Ritas's stands up and holds a tissue over her mouth in a desperate attempt to filter out the creeping miasma that was Rita's pooh-gas
  • Charlie Jones in the cubicle beside Rita's begins coughing and staggers from his cubicle into the hallway where, tragically, the pooh-gas was more intense. Charlie first drops to his knees and then collapses, clutching at his throat.
  • Rita hurries out of her cubicle, stepping over Charlie's writhing body. She is seen moments later from another camera pulling the fire alarm.
Love is forever. But if you're an at-will employee, try not to stink up the place.

Key takeaways and action items

Please take these suggestions and cautionary tale as they are intended, to continue our record-setting productivity here at the office so that we all can keep our jobs. But if there's only one thing we learned from last week's incident, it's that if you must fart, fart elsewhere. Just as we don't want you to leave until all of your work is done, we don't want you coming here with a bunch pooh-gas; i.e., keep your shit at home.

Also, if you want to contribute to the collection for Charlie Jones' widow, the department assistants are collecting.

If you're interested in applying for either Rita's or Charlie's job, please see the electronic job board on the company intranet.

And remember that pressure-free workers are productive workers!


— Trish, Assistant to the Sr. Vice President of HR

P.S., Have a nice day!

Asian Nobel Prizes Revealed to Be No More Racist Than Most Things Everywhere

A Taiwanese businessmen has put up more than 3bn Taiwanese dollars ($103m; £65m) to establish what are being dubbed the “Asian Nobel prizes”.

— http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-21235618

The newly established Asian Nobel Prizes reward the best in sustainable development, biopharmaceutical science, China studies, and “rule of law”. Americans are eligible to apply, but have about a Chinaman’s chance in hell of winning, unless, of course, they are Asian-Americans, who are way smarter than regular Americans.

Quick to respond was Vladimir Putin who revealed that the recently created “Russian Nobel Prizes” would reward vodka drinking and ostentatious consumption. No one, and we mean NO ONE, said anything at all disparaging about Mr. Putin’s idea. In fact, when asked if they thought it was a good idea, all Russians said, “Da.”

Not to be outdone were the French, who announced plans for a “French Nobel Prize” that would be awarded to the Frenchman who did the least amount of work, not including the month-long vacation most Frenchmen take during August because, technically, they were there to work on their tan. French of Algerian descent are, obviously, not eligible for the prize.

Mexico announced their own “Mexican Nobel Prize” to be awarded to any citizen who invented a legal way to attract as many American dollars as the drug trade, but which did so without also bringing American tourists into the country, who, it turns out, are a real pain in the ass.

Canada announced that the newly created “Canadian and French-Canadian Nobel Prize” would be awarded to anyone, anywhere, who can convincingly explain why anyone wants to live in Canada, other than getting out of Michigan.

Cuba added its voice to the cacophony of prize forming countries with its soon-to-be-awarded “Fidel Castro Nobel Prize.” The prize will be awarded annually to Fidel Castro, and will be awarded to him posthumously as well, for the next 100 years, in recognition of Fidel’s many contributions to the country of Cuba, and to annoy Cuban-Americans in south Florida.

Donald Trump declared that he would be organizing an “American Nobel Prize” reality show, to be filmed, Apprentice-style, in his headquarters, with The Donald having final say as to who is worthy of the prize. The criteria, prize, and eligibility requirements had not been revealed, but Mr. Trump seemed confident that it would be way awesomer than anything anyone anywhere else ever created.

Finally, the King of Sweden announced they would award a “Swedish Nobel Prize” to any non-Swede who knew the name of the King of Sweden without using Google.

Read The Post About “Game of Thrones” Rejected by Some of the Finest Editors in the World

About This Post

I try to be funny, especially here on this blog. I also try to publish some pieces I think are funny, but, as I described over at my other site, I sometimes fail spectacularly. When I wrote the piece that follows, I was certain it was hilarious. I was certain the way Ralph knew his theme would convince his teacher that he, Ralph, deserved a BB gun. I don’t even think what I wrote earned a C+.

I am publishing it here with the hope you will help me. Please let me know what you liked or what might have been funnier. If you hate it or just think it is not funny, let me know that too. Either leave a comment or use the contact form.



Game of Recliners

They are idiots, all of them. My family started watching “Game of Thrones” two years ago, and now they are addicted. I was not allowed to watch because, back then, I was too young. As if I hadn’t seen beheadings, petty squabbling, and gross sex before. My parents obviously have no idea what the Disney Channel uses to attract the 8-13 year old demographic.

My older brother was allowed to watch. From what I glimpsed, my brother would have fit in nicely with most of the hapless fools wandering around Westeros, if only because of his poor complexion.

During the first season, which entails clans vying for position around some dumb-old iron chair, my parents used “Game of Thrones” to improve their social position. They invited neighbors and relatives and former friends to the house to join them as they watched, as if they were the only people with HBO and DVR service.

A few dumb old-people fell for it and started hanging around every Saturday, and what had been merely embarrassing now became ridiculous and pathetic. During the opening credits, they reviewed previous episodes and speculated on what might happen next like a bunch of fifth graders in the sex education portion of biology class.

Near the end of the first season, my father hurt his back installing a new fifty-five inch television, and he was unable to sit in the recliner that sat opposite the television. It was the best place in the room to view the television. Everyone wanted to watch “Game of Thrones” from that recliner.

My brother claimed the right to sit on the recliner, which my mother encouraged and defended because he programmed all of her shows for her on the DVR. My brother basically controls the remote for both my parents, because my father doesn’t know how to scroll to the future or delete anything.

The old people are all giddy and stuff about the upcoming third season, but I hope that my father’s plan falls apart. At this point, the only thing going for him is how expensive it is to subscribe to HBO (because that’s what their dumb-old friends complain about), and that their dumb-old friends don’t know how to illegally download movies and stuff (try Google, dumb-old people, and when you find a site that offers the recording you want, click through all the gross porn ads).

I have news for my parents and their dumb-old friends: the recliner is not what matters. The remote control is the seat of power, and I know how to get it. My brother is in the habit of keeping the remote control with him at all times, but often forgets it in the bathroom after pooping. I will brave the stink and stuff one of these days, and secure the remote. Then, while people search the house for the remote, I will password protect “Game of Thrones” on HBO and set up the DVR to record every Disney show so that everything else is thrown away.

My father, dumb old-guy that he is, is about to be schooled in politics junior-high style. When Disney is the only channel to watch, he and his fake friends won’t have to wonder what will happen when the wildings arrive. The landscape will have already been buried under an avalanche of beheadings, petty squabbling, and gross sex. Winter is coming.

Fecal Transplant Found to Cure More Than Clostridium

A study published Wednesday in the New England Journal of Medicine found that fecal transplants cured 15 of 16 people who had recurring infections with Clostridium difficile bacteria. Meanwhile, only seven of 26 patients in two control groups were cured with antibiotics. Physicians and researchers believe that fecal matter transplanted from a healthy person restores that normal balance of bacteria. — http://www.stltoday.com/lifestyles/health-med-fit/study-fecal-transplants-cure-serious-infection/article_d2c69d21-ad6f-5099-8639-8fd777f14c79.html

I was thrilled that the fecal transplant cured my Clostridium infection. It was a disgusting procedure, but two things convinced me to attempt it: first of all, my doctor explained that I could perform it myself in the privacy of my home; secondly, the replacement feces does not have to be ingested orally.

It didn’t cure me the first time out of the chute. Or into the chute, such as it was. I blame my wife. She was disgusted with having to assist me, and I think she has inferior feces. I performed the procedure a second time with some premium poop from my doctor, who was only too happy to oblige, and gained a great deal of flexibility in my lower back by doing it myself. My doctor was pleased because he was able to bill me for his time on the toilet.

There was a tremendous side benefit: once the good doctor’s feces had a chance to assert its biological powers, it cured me of both the infection and my fear of blood. Also, I acquired full knowledge of the human gastro-intestinal tract, my doctor’s specialty.

Next I tried the feces of my butcher, John Borzi. Nowadays, when meat is bought wrapped and frozen in plastic, it’s unusual enough to even know your butcher’s name. But it helps to use someone’s name when you are asking them for a sample of their feces. Once I had injected his feces into my colon, I found that my chronic gall bladder problems were gone. Also, my thumb suddenly weighed three pounds.

Buoyed this success, I asked for a feces sample from my golf pro. This request was easier than the others because my golf pro has been giving me shit for quite some time. With his sample safely injected, I finally cured my slice.

It occurred to me then that I might be able to correct any number of my flaws. I have astigmatism, carpal tunnel, and male pattern baldness. All of these are in my past.

I thought my biggest problem would be the last to be cured, so sensitive is the issue, but my erectile dysfunction was really not a challenge. George Clooney sent me a small sample (autographed) but it was plenty to restore my vitality.

With all those things corrected, I realized I wanted one more thing: my youth. But that seemed impossible to correct, even with feces. And wouldn’t it seem odd to ask of a youngster. Might I be arrested for such a request.

The Lord works in mysterious ways, however, and one evening my doorbell rang, and there, on the front step, was a paper plate filled with a fresh sample of feces. No doubt the work of teenage vandals, the steaming prank could not have been more welcome had it been served on a silver platter.

I thought I had I would enjoy this new lease on life, this second chance. But now I fear I have developed a great problem for which a feces transplant won’t help. I am constipated.

Community Outraged Over Killing of Pantomime Horse

“Candlelight Vigil Held For Slain Elk — A candlelight vigil was held Sunday night honoring the lost life of a Boulder elk. Residents have been outraged over the elk’s death, which they claim was cruel and unnecessary. Boulder Police Officer Sam Carter shot the elk, which had been wandering the Mapleton Hill neighborhood over the past couple of weeks.”


The small town of Lynbrook, Ohio, just outside of Cleveland, was outraged this week when a police officer shot and killed a pantomime horse who had spent the previous several weeks visiting the town. Residents were outraged, and have begun a vigil in front of Lynbrook City Hall, demanding an explanation and an apology. The pantomime horse had become a popular fixture in the downtown area, often speaking to pedestrians, and entertaining local children after school, solving math problems for them by clopping his foot.

The officer, claiming he acted under orders, pointed out that the pantomime horse was a public nuisance and had been defecating daily on the Police Department front lawn, and urinating against the building. “It was getting out of hand,” said the officer, who agreed to speak only if his name was withheld, pending the official investigation of the incident.

When asked about the legality of shooting a pantomime horse, the officer insisted that it’s a gray area of the law, at least in this part of Ohio. “If someone pretends to be an animal, and is treated as an animal, whose fault is it?” the officer asked.

The officer had no comment when asked if he thought there was any chance the investigation into the shooting may focus on the fact that the pantomime horse was, in fact, a man in a horse costume, and that shooting and killing a man in a costume, whether he was a horse or any other animal, might constitute murder. “You certainly can’t call it manslaughter,” the officer said. “Not when he was dressed like that.”

The pantomime horse’s arrival was a cause celebre in the community. His faithful presentation of horse behavior won the hearts of residents who seemed happy to ignore the fact that it was a man in a horse costume; many fed the pantomime horse carrots, apples, and sugar cubes. He would whinny to show his appreciation, and often neighed contentedly when its neck was stroked or patted.

Donald Stevens, whose home is near City Hall and who witnessed the shooting, explained that the creator of the pantomime horse was long-time resident, Syd Bleck, familiar to most of Lynbrook as a homeless alcoholic. “He was the town drunk. Had been for decades. I went to highschool with him here, and he was a drunk in high school, and then kept right on going. I used to buy him drinks, and had quite a few laughs with him, but then, at a certain point, you have to quit doing that stuff, maybe raise a family and at least try to make something of your life. But not Syd. He would stagger from one end of town to the other, begging for drinks, collecting bottles to return, and scrounging pennies until he had enough to buy some booze. Then it was off to the bar.”

“What what I don’t get,” said the officer who shot him, “is that it wasn’t even a good costume.” Admittedly, the pantomime horse costume consisted of a paper mache head painted brown with shoe polish, a discarded broom head for the mane, and tattered brown blanket draped over his shoulders to form the body. Because Syd worked alone, there was no rear end, and no tail. Still, people were drawn to his rendition of a horse.

Donald Stevens, the appreciative neighbor, attempted to explain Syd’s popularity: “Everything he did as a pantomime horse he had originally done as the town drunk: he’d shit on your lawn, piss in your garden, and steal whatever wasn’t tied down. He would even hang around the schoolyard begging lunch money from the kids. He probably deserved to be shot. But once he put on that horse costume, he became more gentle, somehow, like a majestic beast that shared his majesty with the whole town, even as he crapped on our lawns. I really enjoyed him. So no, they shouldn’t have shot him. Maybe just put him out to pasture.”