Bertram Buttersworth prided himself on two things: his perfectly tailored suits and his impeccable flatulence etiquette. Toots were private affairs, discreet little puffs never exceeding a polite “pardon me.” But Bertram’s digestive system, it seemed, had gotten tired of subtlety. It craved chaos.
It began subtly, a mid-sentence “whomp” during a board meeting. Bertram cleared his throat, blaming the creaky chair. He blamed the chair again during his romantic dinner with Beatrice, a symphony of rumbles accompanying the clinking of cutlery. Beatrice, bless her heart, remained oblivious, but the maître d’ cast him a look that could curdle cream.
The worst, however, was the symphony Bertram conducted during the opera. “La donna è mobile,” sang the tenor, while Bertram’s backside provided a counterpoint in a range that would make foghorns jealous. The audience gasped, heads swiveling like confused owls. Bertram, mortified, fled, leaving behind a bewildered Beatrice and a cloud of, well, you know.
Desperation set in. Bertram consulted specialists, swallowed dubious concoctions, even tried meditating with a whoopie cushion (spoiler alert: it didn’t help). Finally, in a moment of despair, he confided in his old friend, Mildred Featherbottom, a retired chemist with a twinkle in her eye and a mischievous grin.
“Bertram,” she chuckled, “you need a distraction, a social experiment!” She concocted a potion, a fizzy green brew that smelled suspiciously like pickles. “One sip,” she promised, “and your inner tuba will be silenced…temporarily.”
Bertram, clutching his dignity like a life raft, downed the potion. It tasted like regret and possibility. And then…silence. Blessed, beautiful silence. He ventured out, a social butterfly reborn. He jested, he waltzed, he regaled Beatrice with tales of his operatic “mishap” (attributing the blame, of course, to the unfortunate bean burrito he’d had before the show).
But fate, as it often does, had a punchline. As Bertram leaned in for a kiss, a low rumble, a tremor, and then…a sound that could peel paint and shatter glass. Beatrice, wide-eyed, let out a yelp that rivaled the soprano’s high C. Bertram, cheeks the color of his beet-red tie, could only stammer, “My apologies, my dear, but it seems the social experiment…well, it requires further research.”
And so, Bertram Buttersworth’s life became a hilarious tightrope walk: living on the edge of flatulence, fueled by hope, desperation, and Mildred’s ever-evolving green concoctions. His social life was a rollercoaster, punctuated by moments of exquisite charm and, well, exquisite emissions. One thing was certain: life was never dull, and Bertram, though forever teetering on the precipice of social disaster, wouldn’t have it any other way. Because sometimes, the funniest stories are the ones that make you let off a funny fart in public. (Or at least laugh like you did.)
Watch our song parody I’m Too Farty now!