home is where the fart is

Heather (my fiancee) and I went out to an "Irish Pub" in down the street from our apartment the other night. This was an Irish Pub in the downtown district, which really meant that there was a wall made of bricks, the roof had the appearance of being wooden, portraits of famous Irish guys hung on the wall, and they make sure to serve Guiness on tap; that is where the actual Irish ends.

I grabbed a Chimay Trappist Ale. Heather got a Harp Lager. We found a small table upstairs and grabbed two stray chairs from nearby tables. Conversation was strained over the band who cranked it to eleven downstairs. "That guy definitely looks like a politician," I said as I pointed at a portrait of an 18th century man in a wig, "or maybe like a large land owner."

We took turns trying to figure out the occupation all of the men in the portraits on the wall. We mostly agreed on everyone. There was a soldier, more than one politician, possibly a biologist, a drag queen, but there was one guy we could not agree on. The guy that is pictured here.

To me, this was a no brainer. Look at that scowl, that serious, contemplative look. Look at his scraggly beard, like he just didn't give a shit. This man was definitely a writer.

But Heather thought he looked Freudian - some kind of scientist. Another biologist perhaps? Or a psychologist. It figures that she would believe that, her being a budding psychologist, but I was sure I was right and I don't like to lose debates. Ever.

So after 4 days of obsessing over it in the shower, I Googled it. George Bernard Shaw - a famous Irish writer. I probably should be ashamed because I studied literature, but whatever, I won. I was right. I made sure to rub it in Heather's face. That's not pathetic, is it?

When we left the pub that night, we saw a shopping cart full of bags on the sidewalk. As we walked around the shopping cart I snuck a quick glance out of the corner of my eye. It was a man rolled up in a sleeping bag. He looked fairly at ease as he stretched his legs out. Then he ripped ass, like 5 times. It was loud enough to hear over the general hum of the streets. I looked over at Heather and I could tell she had definitely heard it. A couple of paces later, it was cool to talk about it.

"Oh my God," said Heather, "that was so funny."

"It's like he doesn't even care," I said. As the initial shock ran through, I realized that for him it wasn't like anyone else walking down the street. That was his home, damnit, and if he had to fart, well then, he was going to.

"Well," I said to Heather, "Home is where the fart is."