Musical fruit

“Okay, Danny, you’re all finished!”

I handed five-year-old Danny his books and instructed him to pack them in his backpack while I wrote his weekly assignment in his notebook. As he took his books from me, I heard a noise.


Having heard stranger sounds come from odd places in the old building in which we sat, I didn’t think much of the noise. I returned my attention to Danny’s notebook, writing furiously so as not to keep him and his mother waiting.


I looked up, and saw a giant grin cross the boy’s face. Did he just do what I thought he did? I quickly completed Danny’s assignment and handed it to him. As he threw the book in his backpack, it came once again, a bit more audible this time.


There was no denying it: Danny had just farted. And he thought it was hysterical. His poor mother, a couple of yards ahead of him, turned around, a mortified look on her face. I couldn’t make eye contact; if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to control my laughter. For his were the farts that could be laughed at: funny sounding with no lingering odor.


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