apparently, my colleague and I weren’t the only ones aurally barated by the “walking fart”. just got an e-mail from another colleague wondering if it was her shoes on the linoleum floor or not.

[literally laughing at my desk now]

apparently there’s an art, to the “walking fart”.

the aforementioned [motions to the quote fingers] coworker never ceases to amaze my anonymous colleague and I. just when we thought our mutual friend couldn’t blow off her trouser trumpet in a better fashion, she goes and takes the biscuit [yes, the 'air' kind].

in walks [literally] the “walking fart”. allow me to describe this flatulent feat in more detail:

air escapes the buttocks at the same exact pace as the feet generally hitting the floor, ensuing in the great guffaw of butt noise on each step… [left foot (parp), right foot (phhrrrp) and so on...]

I often think to myself when she rattles off one of her thundercrackers if my giggling colleague and I are the only ones to hear them! we can’t be the only ones savvy to her antics, surely? I’m starting to think that one can’t help her downstairs behavior, which is sad. but the farting… totally hilarious.

I see this every day - and I’m not exaggerating… EVERY DAY people!

I was sat on the subway [f train] this morning traveling to work, and this big guy gets on, cowboy hat, one of those really attractive earrings that makes a huge hole in your lobe - you know the ones I mean - he sits down right in front of me, sideways - you know the seats I’m talking about.

all is [pretty] normal, until he takes off his hat, places it on his lap, and proceeds to crack his fingers… this goes on for about 10 minutes, then it happens… the corners of his mouth start to turn up. he’s smiling… to himself… then he starts mouthing something inaudible, like if he was reading a book, and you’d kind of follow the words with your mouth sometimes. his silent chatter starts to race, then some kind of eyebrow twitching begins, like it’s some facial orchestra, and the conductor is building on the instrumental crescendo to a final climatic explosion of sound!

I notice hanging around his neck some kind of ID, so I position myself to a point where I can get a good look at what it is this crazy bastard does for a living - you know what it said? it said “licensed new york city tour guide”. I can see it now, “and to your left is the empire state building. and further north is central park, where I am going to take you and murder you all - and take your pinky toes as trophies.”

I sit and watch this guy, fiddling with his fingers and hands, eyebrows twitching like epileptic caterpillars, talking to himself in some silent tongue only he understands…

…and then it hits me…

I live in the company of freaking nut jobs!

sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get the opportunity to simply die of old age [rolls eyes]

one thing I was never subject to in England was the ‘humid summer’. yeah, all that changed in 2002.

it’s one thing going to the beach when it’s a warm sunny day, and then there’s fighting against the ability to breathe.

[raises glass]

here’s to another couple of months of asphyxiation and smelling like a dog’s sack - CHEERS!

HONK HONK!
for my fellow Brits, a glimpse of one of my favorite comedians, Benny Hill… so what if he’s dead?

just for the record, it’s not.

a few things to keep in mind, the next time you feel the urge to expell your mouth spooge in public:

1. you are not Jason Giambi waiting to pitch
2. the opposite sex do not go nuts for your bits watching you fleg your spittle
3. I walk the same streets as you, and I do not want your leprosy
4. nor do I want my dog to succumb to #3

I know it’s something you’ll find hard to do guys, but try keeping your mouths shut in future before letting the pavement feel your bile snot, and do what many women in these parts enjoy… swallow.

another thing, why is there always some fat chick that must insist on rubbing up against your freshly washed and pressed $195 shirt, with her flabby arm flaps which are dripping with stinking sweat?

DON’T TOUCH ME YOU KFC-EATING FINGER-LICKING LUMP!!! Jesus!

summer on the subways - not for the feint of heart… or people that aren’t fat.

[sorry fatsos, but for the love of god, there are millions of people in the city like me, who cannot get their below-190lbs arse on the two-seater seats 'cos you're so freaking wide]

The new york city subways + the summer months = looking like a drowned rat before I get to work!

I can see it now, the City of New York, back in 1904 saying to the IRT and BMT contractors, “hey, it gets really fecking hot in the summer, how about we have some fun and bury the fecking rails and have these new yorkers bake and baste in their own bodily fluids during the months June through August!”.

good idea, fockers.

yes, it happens - and more often than you think. nothing like one of your male coworkers to rattle off a good air biscuit in front of their other male office buddies during that spate of free time normally reserved for lunch.

[gasp]

but what happens to that naturally funny toilet humor when the office mate trouser trumpet turns out to be a woman? therein lies my problem.

1. do I say something to her?

[or]

2. say nothing, suffer the ass vibrations

a close coworker of mine [who shall remain nameless] and I have discussed the possible ramifications of bringing this issue to the attention of the said offender, and have lightly agreed to not say anything. we have also discussed the possibility that our mutual friend’s butt antics may be completely involuntary, making the opportunity for bringing it to her attention somewhat… delicate.

female or not, any kind of gas basket skirt boomers in the office should be outlawed - if only for the fact that I crack up in tears of laughter at that fateful sound.

due to certain circumstances that I won’t go into at this particular juncture, I am currently residing in the rather baron wilderness that is Red Hook [Brooklyn].

so let me begin by saying that I grew up in a neighborhood in England that was far from affluent, but nothing prepared me for the littered streets, the cursing women and half-drunk thirty- somethings persistently requesting 25c handouts that I am now a part of.

what’s really nice about this place is the lack of common-area air conditioning… quite lovely to come home to after walking for 8 blocks, dodging bullets and cherry bombs. therefore, as you can imagine, to not have to swim in my own sweat, I can’t sit in the living room for long periods of time - stuck in my room [for the most part] counting how many Honda Civics I can spot with their original wheels [fun game!] through my window… which is barred.

ah, it’s my little piece of heaven, just as long as I remember to wear my glass-proof forehead when I venture outdoors.

where the bloody hell do I begin?

[the start]

welcome to Brit Blogger, a small and humble abode where one of old blighty’s own brings to you his deepest, and more often than not, completely inane drivel from across the pond — New York City.

enjoy… and if you don’t enjoy [shrugs]