Chimichanga

Recently, I had a deep conversation with a couple of my closest friends. We talked about everything: makeup, stickers, ponies, and Myspace.com. As per usual, I had a lot to say and they had a lot to listen to. Also as per usual, our conversation gradually turned towards bodily functions. Because I'm a nursing student at Loma Linda University School of Nursing, I don't get grossed out by that sort of stuff anymore.

We were discussing flatulence and the accompanying stinkiness when one of us came up with the idea of a machine that could make farts smell nicer. We all agreed that that would be quite awesome. We all had a good laugh and the conversation gradually turned to religion and politics.

Later that night, though, I couldn't help but fantasize about such machines that could make my farts more palatable. Think about it: no longer would we have to endure the discomfort of holding it in while waiting for the elevator to reach the lobby and for the cute doctor to get out already. Now that would be a world I want to be a part of.

My mind was racing. Now, I tend to have quite the imagination, so bear with me. I visualized a small machine, approximately the size of a standard deck of playing cards. Maybe it could have velcro straps to secure it on my glutei. It would also be custom fitted to follow the contours of my body. The machine would have a vacuum on one side (the user side) and a small vent on the other. As the molecules of gas are sucked into the device, a tiny beam of laser would irritate said molecules, causing them to change in their olfactionatory properties. The result is the fragrance of a fresh spring meadow, peppermint, or whatever the user sets the dial to. I think I would want my dial set permanently to Chimichanga.

Sweet.