The fact that your sinful asshole is floating among 40 fucking thousands of god-forsaken unknown units in the chilly air of unholy, spooky fucking around close to space makes you pensive. The thoughts about all the masturbatory triteness of how insignificant life is at the level of a floating sphincter, firmly saying no to an offal fart that was earlier tested for its potential to kill thousands by suffocation in a closed space,
And to think that if the sphincter fails, there may be an entire flotilla of dangerous things in various states of matter, including plasma, which I am not excluding, and, given the pressures and temperatures involved, some of the Bose-Einstein condensate as well. Why not?
I care to mention here that I laboured over looking up spicy anecdotes about body parts, and as a hindu, I find it a little hurtful that although the mouth went to the brahmin and the foot to the shudra, the dick, cunt, balls, tits, and asshole were not mentioned. The tits would have had to be man tits because it was Purusha in the Rig Veda, a man's world. And so cunt is asking for trouble.
The learned men wore the dhoti, which has openings near the anus, and the ratha, unlike the modern aeroplane, had suitable holes placed at convenient locations.
This may have been the reason why they never had the sphincter discipline that we are familiar with or the volume and distorted nature of smell that gases accumulated at close inimical quarters are prone to exhibit. If such a facility were now made available and I could release my load, I would wonder if the space fairies watching over the deserts would be so kind as to blow them into the open mouth of the recent stodgy and stingy acquaintance I have made and help seal our friendship in a fanfare of holy hiccups and whatever sails the superstitious boat on his part of the sand.
Why is it that I don't particularly find my farts particularly unpleasant, while others find them extremely so? It's quite a tender subject to raise on a date to discuss with a would-be, but what if she has the kind of fart that sets off the wrong alarm bells? Some farts have an evil quality to them. They come with a signature stickiness and stay with you, lingering on the fragile emotional nerves already harried by the memory of the last time something like this happened and you murdered the culprit.
You remember distinctly that you made sure you sent the turds to god to figure out exactly what was there that was so diabolical. And of course you didn't go to jail because all this happened while you were sleeping. What had happened, however, was that you had shit yourself, and the bed had to be thrown out, and it was one of those fancy mattresses.
And all this happened in a time warp when you were graduating from a single cell to a multi-tiered civilization in a parallel parasitic dimension, and that parasite suddenly got involved, things became extremely hairy, and you were on a flight flying back to kolkata after a brief stunt at eating sand the arab way and failing.
While you were eating sand and commenting on how it's not the same as a sandwich, you noticed that people had started to look at you with suspicion, usually the kind that is exhibited in old-fashioned lithographs of prehistoric times and afforded to lepers and other misunderstood creatures with ambulatory issues.
While it's common sense to flag people you don't understand as mad or heretics, it's only by opening the tight buttons on the bellies of overfed, flatulent, flabby passengers that madness caused by nausea can be properly treated.
The plane is planning to land, which, given all the fart that has accumulated in the cabin, is a good idea. It may be that, unable to exorcise the demon within the gas, it may knock me out literally in a sort of coma, where it wouldn't matter where I land because all land at that stage is la la land.
