The Great Fart Contest
Some moments in a young man's life are destined for greatness. Graduation. A first car. The night Mitchell came over to my bedroom and I challenged him to a fart contest. I would argue the last one matters most, and I am prepared to defend that position in any debate club in the country.
Let me paint the scene for you. My room is a temple of athletic excellence and questionable hygiene. Football posters line the walls, including number 24 in a black jersey and number 12 sprinting with the ball. They watch over us like ancient gods. Two baseball gloves lay abandoned on the carpet. A basketball rested near my football helmet and shoulder pads, which were, in hindsight, the only real protective gear in the room.
My bed had not been made in what scholars might call "a concerning amount of time." My blue hoodie hung over the footboard. The Nintendo Switch sat docked on the desk, silently judging us. Mitchell, for his part, had shown up to this esteemed occasion sporting his shirt and a pamper, which, honestly, I respected. A man who comes prepared deserves acknowledgment.
I stood in the center of the room in my finest striped polo, tucked in, because I believe in dressing for the occasion. Then I issued the challenge: "The ultimate challenge awaits. A fart contest with Mitchell. Bring your A-game, Mitch."
He did not disappoint.
Round one went to me. It was a short, crisp opener that echoed off the window and made the dome light seem to flicker. Mitchell called it "amateur hour." I called it a strategic warm-up.
Round two belonged to Mitchell. I will not describe it in detail out of respect for the reader. I will only say that the "Band Bans" poster above my desk may never fully recover, and the calendar now has a mysterious curl at the corner.
By round three, we had abandoned all dignity. We were rating each attempt on volume, duration and what Mitchell called "artistic merit." We laughed so hard that we both fell onto the messy beds. This, I must admit, only made the air quality worse.
The final round ended in a tie, which felt correct. Two warriors had given their all, and neither deserved to walk away defeated. We shook hands like gentlemen. Then we opened the window, because we are gentlemen with limits.
Some people say a contest like this is immature. Those people are correct. They are also missing out. Life is busy, school is stressful and adulthood is coming at us faster than a fastball. Sometimes you need to stand in the middle of your cluttered bedroom, look your best friend in the eye and challenge him to something gloriously ridiculous.
Mitchell, if you are reading this, I demand a rematch. Same room, same time next week. And this time, show up on time and leave the pamper at home. Actually, scratch that. Come exactly as you are.