Inspired by a post on first date farts, I realized that I too had a first date fart story.
Odd. That first dates and farts are common enough that they are the second first date F word … when you’d think there might be more popular F words on that list.
My FDFS happened waaay back when I was 18. Living in Austria, training horses … and there was this boy. A cute boy, just a few years older who worked part time at our ranch and most of the time for BMW or one of those german car companies. He had a nice, fast, car. And he was cute.
I worked at the ranch about half an hour outside Salzburg. He worked for my boss in Salzburg at the little ranch where they made sausages. (Angus beef… and a bull name Hogan … where I get my nickname Hoagie from … whole other post for another time.) It sounds complicated, but it’s not. Wee barn on about 5 acres in the “suburbs” of Salzburg. He’d make the trip out to our ranch a couple times a week and I’d get all shy and giggle.
(I can’t even remember his name now … Gerald maybe?)
We spoke broken Germ-english to each other. His english was quite good, my german, quite bad. But he asked me to go to a club with him and I was very excited … so cute. Fast car. Did I mention cute?
So off we went to a club. Turns out that talking Germ-english to each other over the thump-bump of german techno is kind of hard. So he suggested we go for a drive … he’d show me the lights of Salzburg from high atop a hill.
Sigh. So romantic. <3
It was early March, and chilly. A damp chilly, you know, the really cold kind. And snow is heavy and wet on damp, chilly, cold, Austrian evenings.
We wind up the hill, snow drifts piled high on either side of the road. The road was a switchback with hairpin turns and we were near the top.
Suddenly, in the road in front of us, was a drift about as high as our hood and straight across the road. My date didn’t waver. He, in fact, accelerated. (Really? Idiot.)
We confidently and forcefully … wedged that BMW right in the snow bank.
And it would not budge.
Dressed for a pub night, wearing tight jeans and knee high boots and a light jacket. I chattered beside him as he vainly tried to dig the car out.
His mood darkened.
He decided that we’d need to hike down the hill, about half an hour, into Salzburg, to the wee barn … and get the tractor.
Fine by me. I’m a transplanted city girl out on the farm … but I damn well know stuck when I see it. Tractor it is.
But we didn’t follow the road down, oh no, we went straight down… through bush and trees, road, bush and trees, road, bush and trees, road. Until I was snowy and frozen up to my thighs.
And still trying to laugh and make the best of things.
His mood wasn’t improving. I figured his manhood or pride or some crap like that had been wounded by his car’s ability to get through a snow drift. Whatever.
But we made it to the farm and picked up the old tractor, thankfully it was not quite THAT old and did have a closed in cab and weak heat. Back up we went…
And here’s where the fart comes in.
I don’t know why I didn’t fart outside. I guess I just didn’t have to. But my stomach was hurting and I could feel that I needed to fart NOW. I used all my will power to keep that sucker in … but ever so slowly … silently … and, you guessed it, deadly. It swooshed out.
Maybe, I kept thinking, it won’t be that bad.
Hm. Nope, it’s pretty bad.
I was wedged between the seat (which he was sitting in) and the door and could not move … and didn’t really want to. But the horrible, terrible smell kept circulating and I said nothing.
I stared out the window.
He stared out the window.
He drove a bit faster. I continued to shiver and pray that he’d open one of the little windows. But no. Apparently he’d rather suffocate of fart in here than be cold. Fine.
We arrived at the car. Scooped away snow, pulled the car out and he turned it around.
I reached for the keys.
And he handed me the tractor keys.
Um, surely you’ve made a mistake, I said …
No, you can drive the tractor.
He looked me in the face and said “your boots are too snowy, you’ll mess up my car.”
Stink up my car is more like it.
So I drove the tractor home to the barn and he followed in the BMW.
I guess by the time we got to the barn, I was suitable dry and clean to have a ride home to the ranch.
My mood, by that time, was of the silent and deadly variety.
Not only date over, but we never spoke to each other in germ-english after that. He said I should speak german, I was in his country, after all.
I told him to go screw himself.
I’ve hated BMW drivers ever since.