TMI Thursday: The Chair

It was late August 1995 and my roommate and I were hosting one of what became a Legen-wait for it-dary string parties during our sophomore year in the warm embrace of Chapel Hill. (And, when I say warm, I mean August in North Carolina warm.)

Morrison Residence Hall - Scene of legendary exploits

and tales too twisted to tell (except here)

Our parties were significantly better than everyone else’s for a couple of very simple reasons. First, due to my six years before the mast in the Marines, I was old enough to legally procure that most valuable of commodities in an underclass dorm: alcohol. And procure it I did. In vast and previously unheard of quantities.

The Prez (my roomie) and I each kicked in 20 bucks at the start of the year to fill the fridges with Rolling Rock for us and the people we knew, and The Beast for those who just wandered in off the streets. All we asked was a small donation from those partaking of our generosity and they were assured of beer-filled mini-fridges and a place free of the tyranny of the RAs to partake in the malted goodness.

The tyranny-free zone was the result of two factors: One, I never let a party get too out of hand and, B) the RA on our floor had a healthy, but totally unfounded, fear of the former Marine in his charge. (Except for one somewhat drunken occasion the day after he busted my girlfriend for underage drinking when I wasn’t around, I was never, ever, anything but a completely loveable teddy bear of a 6’2” 225-pound former Marine rugby player. Like Fezzik said, “It's not my fault being the biggest and the strongest. I don't even exercise.”)

Anyway, getting back to the story, being the new school year people would wander hither and yon in the 10-storey behemoth that was and is Morrison Residence Hall. After a couple of weeks our den of inequity quickly gained a good rep and the freshmen and, more importantly, freshwomen arrived in droves most Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights.

On one evening that sticks out in the collective memory, a trio of particularly comely maidens wandered by, were invited in and provided libations and the best seats in our 1,680-cubic-foot room. Here’s where the problem arises, since our guests were sitting in our finest chairs, I was relegated to one of the standard-issue formed-plastic chairs that came with the room. Ya see what’s coming, don’t ya?

Beer + Dining hall food = Only one possible outcome.

I farted. Loud and long and proud. A real first-class tear-ass gas bomb. And, with the assistance of the standard-issue formed-plastic dorm room chair, I think I even got the rarest of effects: reverb.

Now, amongst men, this action would have been praised and, depending on those present, a heroic ballad may have even been written about the exploit.

But our trio of maidens didn’t quite see things the same way. All conversation stopped dead. Jaws dropped. Beers were quickly chugged or abandon.

We never saw them again.