Raising Hell

It’s fairly common knowledge that I have very little love for my alma mater Southern Illinois University Edwardsville. My time there was mired with misleadings and stressful situations that extended my “university experience” to a whopping six and a half years! Due to several semesters of terrible guidance counseling, a twice frozen account, and a handful of other bizarre issues, it took me two-thirds of a decade to acquire my Bachelor’s!

Now to be fair, some of those bizarre issues were my own fault, I did twice fail Algebra 120 after all. Now if you’re reading this and thinking that this class sounds familiar and I’ve written of it before, you’d be correct. It was during my second go at Algebra 120 that I had my own #metoo moment (see P.I.M.P.). Following that terrifying incident, I knew this required math class was a curse and I would need to eject myself from my current curriculum if there was ever to be any hope of me graduating before my sixty-fifth birthday!

Once I declared myself an English Major, I no longer needed a mathematics credit to graduate! HALLELUJAH! Of all the good things that resulted from that change in major, this was BY FAR the best! I was instead offered a selection of classes that could be taken in place of that aggravating Algebra 120 course and from them I chose Introduction to Dance.

This was obviously a dream come true for me. I mean, I can’t do algebra for shit, but if you’ve seen my dance class videos on Instagram or Facebook, then you know that I’m truly a world-class dancer. I could not wait for the spring semester start of that Introduction to Dance class! Not only was I going to get an inevitable “A” and a required credit towards graduation, but I was going to earn it doing something I loved!

Well, as it would turn out, Introduction to Dance wasn’t exactly as I imagined. Nearly every session was spent in a classroom learning about different styles of dance. There were only six, maybe eight classes where we actually went to the student fitness center and dance danced. While this was obviously not what I was expecting, it was still sure as Hell a lot better than some math class I was never going to pass.

It was during one of those cold, January days in the aforementioned classroom where the real story of this blog takes place. This tale had my test audience (my lovely coworkers at The Men’s Wearhouse) hooting and hollering with laughter for days following my initial sharing. The following story is not something I am necessarily proud of, but it makes for a great laugh, so here we go…

As I mentioned, it was a cold, wintery day and as I sat there in the furthest back, left hand corner desk in the crammed classroom taking down notes from the slideshow that was projected before me, I started to feel a slight tinge of queasiness in my stomach. I know you think you know where this is going, but bare with me here, I’m gonna throw you a curveball. Anyway, this class was wildly more overcrowded than would should have been allotted, but you know, budget cuts, so as we were all packed in there sitting basically right on top of one another, I did something that sent the entire back half of the class into complete and total chaos.

I. Passed. Gas.

Praise the Lord, it was silent, but what it lacked in volume, it more than made up for in its odious stench. Slowly, it wafted over the entire back half of the classroom, attacking one set of nostrils at a time, causing each new victim to stir uncomfortably in their seat. From where I was sitting in the very back corner, I had the perfect view of each new casualty. It was so putridly potent that it sent any downward facing head shooting straight up. Everyone began to look around with their nostrils flared in disgust hoping to see if anyone else was suffering from the same stinky symptoms they were. It didn’t take anyone long to realize everyone was experiencing the same scent of discomfort, but no one dared speak on it. Everyone just coughed, gagged, and stirred uncomfortably in their seats knowing they had become another victim of this cringeworthy crime.

The fear of having a suspecting eye cast on me caused me to mirror everyone else’s reactions. I couldn’t behave out of sorts, otherwise it would be obvious I was the source of the stink. The self-imposed terror of being discovered caused my body to let loose another round of flatulence and like before, these too were silent, but somehow they stung the sniffer even worse than the first batch. I watched as my classmates returned in horror to coughing and choking from the agony of my asshole.

We were at most maybe three weeks into the semester and the possibility of being discovered as the offender caused me to remain terrified at the consequences of that discovery. I knew it would ruin me for the rest of that class – Hell! It could have ruined me for the rest of college! I thought I was going to have to end up dropping the class out of shame, but then just like they did in P.I.M.P., a group of unknowing fraternity brother’s came to my rescue and saved me from imminent peril.

Now let me preface this by saying I do not look back on this next part fondly. In fact, it is one of the few shames of my life, but in the moment, it was my saving grace.

No one would have ever suspected that the skinny, poorly dressed, white boy in the back corner of the class could have let loose such an abrasive animal of a fart. No, thankfully for me, those fraternity brothers all assumed it was the somewhat heavier set girl sitting in the dead center of the room. Poor thing, it certainly didn’t help that on this particular day she wore a classic orange Hooters shirt because from that iconic logo came her infamous nickname, Pooters.

I sat there in disgrace as Pooters took the fall for me. The boys were all quiet with their laughs and whispers as the ringleader coined Pooters the culprit. I remain firm in my belief that she never learned she was the accused because she wore that shirt countless more times that semester. I cannot imagine continuing to wear a garment that warranted one such an unfortunate nickname, yet she kept it heavy in her wardrobe rotation.

The whispering and laughing of the fraternity brother’s added to the already heavy number of people fanning their faces and continuing to cough and gag in extreme disgust. I managed to crop dust the entire back half of the room without ever leaving my seat. All this commotion finally caught the attention of our sweet, enthusiastic-about-dance professor.

“Everyone okay back there?” She asked kindly and with a slight laugh before pausing her slideshow. “You guys are really Raising Hell in that back corner there.”

Everyone in the front half of the class who had not experienced the misfortune of tasting my flatulent feast turned around to see what all of us in the back were doing. None of us spoke up and instead remained uncomfortably uneasy in our seats. Pooters too turned around to see what was going on. Poor girl had no idea that about fifteen or so of her classmates thought she let it rip. I remember beads of sweat began forming along my brow. The uncomfortableness was making me queasier than before and I feared another round of toxicity was about to be let loose on my peers, but would my farts continue to be silent? I couldn’t bare the thought of rattling my desk with more of my anal outage and my heart began pounding so ferociously I could feel my throat beginning to clog.

“Are you guys hot?” Our sweet professor asked, thereby ending the uncomfortable silence. “How about we open the door?” She said as she did just that.

“Oh, definitely! Please open that door!” The fraternity ringleader called out. “That should definitely help clear the air. It just got real thick back here, ya know?”

“Oh, dear,” the professor remarked as she started swinging the door to and fro in a fanning motion. “Here hons, this should help move the air around.”

The disruption of the commotion helped ease my system substantially and allowed my body to return to a sense of normalcy, thus avoiding me letting loose a third round of stink bombs. While I managed to get through the rest of that day – and the entire semester – without further incident and finish with the “A” I anticipated, I still feel guilty for letting poor Pooters take the fall for me.

Should the same scenario have happened now, I’d proudly own my moment, but the insecure version of my past allowed an innocent stranger who couldn’t have possibly worn a worse shirt that day take the fall. I don’t mean to further demean her by continuing to refer to her as Pooters, but I don’t remember a single person’s name from that class, including hers, so for better or worse, she’ll forever be Pooters to me. Hell, in fact, anytime I see a Hooters restaurant or one of those classic orange shirts, I’m always reminded of that disgusting day in Introduction to Dance where I was the true Pooters.

Thank you all for reading and please feel free to drop a comment below! There’s nothing I love more than reading your thoughts on my writings! My dedicated readers will be happy to know I’ve stockpiled a handful of blogs for future postings, so it will not be another five weeks or what have you before my next one! I’ve even managed to get a fair amount of writing done while here in California on vacation! Again, I appreciate each of you reading this greatly! You all are simply the best!