(Warning, the following blog entry is not meant for mature audiences.)
OK, it's early Sunday afternoon and I'm in the middle of a business phone call to New York. I'm sitting in my easy chair in the livingroom, the front door is closed, the father of the Hispanic family next door is in his driveway working on the engine of his expensive pickup (must be some gene that Hispanic men have.)
As the New Yorker asks me a question, the Hispanic neighbor uses his air-gun socket wrench on a bolt in his engine -- the kind that when it finishes tightening, it starts slipping and making a loud farting noise. My neighbor is one of those men who ignores the noise, believing that the longer the farting noise continues, the tighter the bolt and the more manly he becomes.
Subsequent dialog with New York businessman (who is a pretty good acquaintance):
NYB: Uh, what was that?
Me (snickering): You're not going to believe this, but that was my neighbor's wrench air gun next door.
NYB: Uhuh!! Yeah, right!
Me: No, seriously, Ken. I swear it wasn't me. (chuckling)
NYB: Man, you better get some medicine.
Me: (laughing too hard to respond)
NYB: Do you just let her rip whenever you're on a business call, David, my man?!
Me: (laughing too hard to respond)
NYB: (laughing too hard to speak)
Me: (still chuckling) No matter what I say, you're not going to believe it wasn't me, right?
NYB: Hell no!
Me: OK, it was me.
NYB: No it wasn't. (laughing) NOBODY could fart THAT long!
Me: You didn't know me when I was younger. I about poisoned-gassed my family on long road trips.
NYB: I'll remember that when you finally come up here.
Me: I promise to give you a warning.
NYB: Hell, I won't need a warning. You're loud as shit!
(Both laughing)
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