Last night my buddy Westmoreland and I were at the Intercontinental Hotel in downtown San Francisco. We had gone to the bar there to meet up with two of my clients. They were both in town for a conference, and had asked Westmoreland and me to meet them for drinks, since they didn’t really want to hang out with whichever “piece of shit broker” that was hosting their conference (hint: rhymes with “Goldman Sachs”). Their words, not mine.
We hung out from 4pm until 9pm, never eating a single bite of food. This turned into an interesting situation. First, we got very drunk, very quickly. And second, whatever imported IPA the hotel bar had on tap was giving me horrible, horrible gas. Since it’s generally frowned upon to be dropping bombs while you’re spending time with clients, I had to make frequent trips to the bathroom and hotel lobby to let them rip. They were BAD. These were the kind of farts that were so hot, you worried you might singe the back of your pants when you let them out. I was double-paranoid every time I released one and walked away because I thought there was a vapor trail following me, and that my colon might be exposed through the newly seared hole in the back of my pants.
I managed to get through the 5-hour binge drinking session without ever crop dusting my clients, although I’m pretty sure I saw a bellman with tears in his eyes, and a receptionist covering her face to breath. We eventually went our separate ways for the night.
Westmoreland and I walked outside to the front of the hotel to flag down two taxis. None were immediately available, however there was a black town car parked in front. Often times in San Francisco, town cars will pick up passengers and charge similar fares to taxis, if they aren’t currently booked. And so, we decided to ask if he was available.
Westmoreland waved at the driver, but he didn’t react. He waved again. The driver again sat still, not acknowledging him. Westmoreland then walked up and gently knocked on the driver’s window. The driver then SNAPPED, rolling down his window and shouting:
Westmoreland: “Whoa, easy buddy. I just wanted to see if you’re available.”
Driver: “DO I LOOK LIKE A TAXI! NO! DON’T TOUCH MY CAR AGAIN!”
Driver: “I TOLD YOU I’M NOT A TAXI! GET AWAY FROM MY CAR!”
Westmoreland took two steps back. The driver rolled up his window, and stared at us with a dirty look. I don’t know what his problem was. It wasn’t really that nice of a town car. This guy clearly had issues. But Westmoreland decided to let it go. Or so I thought.
Two taxicabs pulled up a few minutes later and pulled behind the town car, which was still parked in front of the hotel. We waved at them, and both drivers signaled that they were free. I started walking to my left, toward the cabs. But not Westmoreland. He walked to the right.
Westmoreland walked around to the front of the town car. Then, very calmly without changing his expression or taking his hands out of his pockets, he stepped onto the front bumper, walked onto the hood, proceeded straight up the windshield, across roof, down the back windshield, across the trunk, used the back bumper as a step down, and then walked directly to the taxi, got in and rode away…while proudly giving the town car driver the finger.
The driver of the town car went absolutely ballistic. He immediately was screaming and honking his horn. It all happened so fast, by the time the driver tried to get the door open, Westmoreland was already on the trunk of the car. And when he tried to jump out of his seat, he forgot that his seatbelt was still on, and completely clotheslined himself in the crotch and chest. He had lost his composure so badly, that he had to wrestle with the seat belt for a few seconds before he could get it undone. And by that time he finally was out, Westmoreland’s taxi was pulling away. There wasn’t any damage to the car whatsoever. Just a few footprints, and one pissed off psychopathic driver.
Fully in stitches from laughing, I hopped into the second cab and gave the driver my coordinates. He had a very, very thick Russian accent. His English was downright poor and very broken, but he understood my cross-streets and we pulled away. I looked at his driver shingle, and oddly enough, his name was Boris. Imagine that.
We drove a few blocks, when suddenly I was hit with another wave of piping hot, IPA draft farts. Not being able to hop out for a quick second, and also not really caring about making a good impression on the Russian cab driver, I decided to just let it go. And like all the farts I had produced that night, it smelled like Napalm.
About twenty seconds passed. I started to think that maybe, just maybe I had gotten away with one. But then, the driver started flinching. It was violent. I thought maybe he was having a seizure because he was convulsing so forcefully. It actually looked like someone had just Tasered him.
And then he started shouting.
I started to chuckle. Then, Boris rolled down the window as fast as he could and stuck his head out. He looked like Ace Ventura, and was now driving with his head completely out the window.
I stared laughing harder. Then he pulled his head into the car.
Boris: “YOU…YOU…YOU MAKE…YOU MAKE BAD…BAD…OHHHH MY…”
He stuck his head back out the window for another second, took a deep breath, and then pulled it back in.
I lost my shit laughing.
Mean Joe: “BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Wait, what did you just say?”
Driver: “BAD!!! AIR!!! BAD!!! AIR!!! YOU MAKE BAD AIR!!!”
Boris then grabbed a handkerchief, put it over his face, and tried to continue driving. All the while, I could hear a muffled, “OH MY GOD!” coming from behind it. This only lasted one block. All of a sudden the car weaved right, and came screeching to a halt on the side of the road. Boris jumped out like he had just spotted a rattlesnake in the passenger seat. But in fact, it was really just an invisible rectum snake.
He ran to the passenger side of the car, reached in the window, and pulled air freshener out of the glove compartment. Then he started spraying it aggressively into the car. I was in stitches laughing in the back seat, wishing my crappy Blackberry had video capabilities. He stood on the curb next to the car for about two minutes, still holding the handkerchief over his face, and pacing back and forth. I spent all 120 seconds hiccupping and trying to catch my breath while laughing in the back seat.
Finally, when my respiratory system had resumed a more normal pace, I stuck my head out the window.
Boris didn’t like that at all.
Boris: “YOU MAKE BAD AIR! YOU HAVE NO RESPECT! YOU HAVE TO RESPECT! BUT NO, YOU NO RESPECT! YOU MAKE BAD AIR!”
He then tore open the rear door where I was sitting.
Mean Joe (still giggling): “Really? I’m not paying you if you just leave me here.”
Boris: “OUT! OUT! OUT OF MY CAB!”
I wasn’t going to fight it. I had already done enough damage. I continued to laugh aloud, stepped out of the cab, and before he could shut the door behind me I already hailed another taxi take me the last half of my way home. As I pulled away, the poor Boris was STILL standing on the curb, with his eyes watering, holding the handkerchief over his face. And I was still laughing.
I know what you’re wondering: Did I fart in the second cab? As much as I needed to, no. I held them in. Why, might you ask? Zeno’s paradox, my friends. If a cab takes you halfway home and you get kicked out for farting. Then the second cab takes you halfway from that point and you get kicked out again…and so on…I might never actually make it home. And I needed to get home. Because clearly I had to take a toilet clogging, biohazard of a dump.