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Wouldn’t it be good if you could fart nonstop for an hour and then not have to fart again for a whole year? Get them all out of the way in one go.
So once a year people drive to the countryside and they walk into the middle of a field and they fart for an hour. Nonstop. The Wind that Shakes the Barley.
Then one morning your boss says “Where’s Jerry today?”
You reply, “He had to go on a little trip (wink).”
He sez, “What do you mean?”
You say, “You know (wink). Time of the Year (wink). He’ll be in at 11.”
Jerry comes in at 11 and the boss says, “Where were you, Jerry?”
Jerry’s immediately all defensive, he says quietly, “It was a personal matter.”
The boss sniggers and says, “That’s gas.”
Jerry hands in his notice and takes a case of flatulent harassment against the boss. In the courtroom, the prosecutor asks the boss, “When did you first get wind that Jerry was having medical problems?”
Everyone cracks up laughing and the case is thrown out.
So Jerry goes to the European Court of Human Rights.
The judge tells Jerry that he can’t grant him any compensation because his case isn’t airtight. Jerry can’t believe what he’s hearing. A judge in the European Court of Human Rights is belittling his struggle to gain financial compensation for his boss’s lack of sensitivity. He stands up in the courtroom and screams all sorts of obscenities at the judge. After Jerry’s settled down again, the judge explains that he didn’t mean anything nefarious by his use of the word airtight. (It must have gained something in the translation.) What he meant was simply that Jerry didn’t have anyone present when he was experiencing his time of the year and therefore could not prove that he was undergoing the condition.
The judge then fines Jerry a hefty sum for his foul language.
Poor Jerry. He’s gone all sensitive because of his bout of flatulence and he’s paid his lawyers over the odds and he’s run out of cash. Jerry has to sell his house to pay his legal fees. Lauren, Jerry Junior and little Mischa leave Jerry to live with Lauren’s mother. Two weeks later, the divorce papers are served on Jerry. Lauren isn’t happy with the way things have turned out, and she’s furious with Jerry for spending all the savings. It’s the first divorce induced by a fart in the history of the state and it makes all the papers.
So you’re sitting there, one weekend, in a pub, and you pick up a paper that somebody’s left behind, and you see a picture of Jerry and you point at it and you tell all your mates:
“I used to work with that guy, you know.”
“Who?” they say, “Windy Jerry Fahy, the Farty Bastard?”
Coz that’s his nickname now.
“Yeah,” you say.
“Are you telling me that you know Windy Jerry Fahy, the Farty Bastard?” your mates ask.
You smile and nod.
“I made Windy Jerry Fahy, the Farty Bastard, the man he is today,” you begin, warming to your theme. “It all started three years ago when he was late for work. He had told me discreetly the evening before that he would be experiencing the Time of the Year the next morning and he wouldn’t be in till 11. He didn’t couch it in those words exactly; he said he’d be ‘visiting a field’.”
All your mates roar with mirth as you continue.
“So just plain Jerry, as he was known then, was late for work the next morning and my boss asked me where he was. I told him it was Jerry’s Time of the Year and he wouldn’t be in till 11.
“Jerry comes in at 11, all embarrassed and ashamed, and the boss asks him where he’s been. Jerry tells him he was taking care of a personal problem and the boss says ‘That’s gas.’”
Your mates all roar with laughter and offer to buy you a pint.
The next day, Windy Jerry Fahy, the Farty Bastard, is found hanging from the light fitting in his bedsit. Banner headlines in the tabloids decry the state of society when a man can’t break wind in the countryside without being driven to his death. It colours people’s perspectives of you. You become known as the guy who started a man on the road to suicide. People whisper things behind your back. ‘Make sure you don’t tell that guy about your emissions,’ they say, ‘He’s insensitive.’
Things come to a head when the suicide is referred to in the Senate. Finally, the Minister for Justice makes a speech in parliament. She’s a serious woman with blond hair, middle aged, a bit commonsensical. She starts by saying “I’d like to talk for a few minutes if I may about the death of a man who should never have been allowed to slip through the net of society.” And she does a long-winded speech about Windy Jerry Fahy, the Farty Bastard, promising to exact justice on those who drove Jerry to his death. Your boss turns you into a patsy and you become the figure of hate that everyone focuses on. Your name is in the papers alongside such phrases as “Fart-Killer” and “the Parpetrator”.
You become associated with noxious anal emissions for the rest of your days. Now, I ask you again: Would it be good if you could fart nonstop for an hour and then not have to fart again for a whole year?