The “Kofta” Incident
In the tradition of great internet poo stories, I’m going to share mine. In case it’s not already apparent – this is a poo story, if you’re easily offended, stop reading.
In Victorian schools, sexism in education isn’t tolerated – for this reason, boys studying home economics and textiles and girls doing automotive technology is mandatory for the non-elective years.
This is a story of 8th grade Home Economics (which basically only consists of cooking, but “cookery” doesn’t look as good on the curriculum), and four idiotic boys. Our assignment for the day was to make a particular recipe of Kofta, or “indian meatballs”.
I do not remember the specifics, only that the recipe called for a certain amount of Curry powder. Let’s pretend that the exact amount was a quarter teaspoon.
Two of us both added a quarter teaspoon at different times, a lapse in communication. This lapse was compounded with a kid named Shaun, who not only didn’t get the memo we’d already added the curry – he got confused as to the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon.
At some point in the class, Peter noticed our error and it was decided among the group that it was obvious we weren’t going to have the tastiest Kofta so we might as well have the hottest – and dumped the rest of the class’s provisions of curry powder into our recipe.
Upon taste testing our efforts, our teacher – not one to put up with such horseplay – decided to enforce the rule of “you made it, you eat it.” What follows is the story of the hell on an unacclimatized (read: I don’t like hot food) digestive system that eating curry powder mixed with a little ground beef has.
The four of us sat for our hearty meal, and as we edged through it piece by piece, classmates exited the dining room and got ready for lunch break. Being unable to leave, we sat and chipped away at those little demon balls. Approximately 45 minutes and almost a gallon of milk and quite possibly an equal number of tears later, I had finished the three meatballs that were my share.
The rest of the day went by quite uneventfully, until the busride home, which at the time was quite a long trip for me. Approximately 5 minutes into it, the vibrations of the bus made it quite apparent that something was wrong. It wasn’t yet a “red alert” situation, but things were uncomfortable and the residents of my stomach had noticed.
I tried to hang in there, clenching my sphincter as much as I could, but it was no use. It was probably just gas, and honestly how bad could it smell? The population of the bus had thinned out a bit, so I decided to take the ultimate gamble. I convinced myself I could get away with it, and that the risk to my reputation and undergarments didn’t outweigh the benefit that a small release in pressure would afford my comfort. How bad could it be?
Bad? Imagine the mixed aromas of a slaughterhouse, combined with an Indian restaurant in full swing. Sulphur and/or Brimstone would not have been an entirely dishonest description. It had the same effect on people’s tearducts as when LittleFoot’s mother died in “The Land Before Time.” It was like a bomb had gone off, people were coughing, crying, disoriented and beginning to renounce their faiths.
By this point I’d escaped without blame, but they continued throughout the trip, becoming larger in magnitude and with each wave I became less and less convinced I hadn’t shit myself. Despite the fact the bus had almost completely thinned out of kids (our house was one of the last stops), no one seemed to pin these repeated acts of nasal vandalism on me. Perhaps the bus driver figured it out after I disembarked, but no one said anything to me after it.
The walk from the bus stop to my house was equally unpleasant – what I gained from no longer being in a confined space, I lost from having the walking motion of my legs acting as a veritable air pump.
I made it home, and went straight to the bathroom – it clearly wasn’t over yet and whether or not I’d shit myself I knew that these horrendous acts were mere precursors to an impending, climactic fecal event.
I must have spent a good hour or so on that toilet, sitting in the same horrific stench that had mysteriously plagued a school bus earlier that day when I decided to survey the damage to my undergarments. Miraculously, I’d not strictly speaking shit myself. No, aside from various holes the only damage to my underwear was what appeared to be a thin film of curry skidmarks.
I decided it probably wouldn’t come out, and I didn’t dare risk contaminating the rest of a load of laundry so I decided the best thing to do was just throw them away. At this point things began to wind down, towards the end I was barely flinching – as if I were a soldier who’d just fought a terrible battle, hearing explosions in the distance.
So to answer the original question that fueled this post: Yes, I have farted so bad I had to throw my underwear away.