In early 2011, a Local Courts bill was given to the parliament in Malawi. This bill contained a section which proposed to ban “fouling of the air”. That meant no breaking wind in public. This particular clause (at least) was retracted and did not see enforcement. A few other amusing clauses were also part of the bill. After the Shout team at the other end of the table laughed at it a good deal more than people of their age bracket should, they got around to wondering what if (cue rippling effect and xylophone music) this ban on flatulence was imposed in Dhaka? It would NOT be pretty.
There will no longer be time for pleasantries. The collective populace will always have a strained look on their faces. Big Brother knows all, smells all. The stress from holding it in would need to be relieved in some other way. So you’ll decide to break that guy looking at you funny, instead of breaking wind. You’d see a lot more fights on the streets and they’d look a lot funnier too. Everybody trying to evade blows to the abdomen that could result in dire atmospheric pollution. Moving stiff and avoiding abdominal pressure altogether while swinging your arms, trying to hit that bastard silently mocking your struggle. But at the end of the day, what does it matter if you win? The struggle will continue the next day regardless of the number of black eyes given or had.
The need to break wind will eventually give rise to underground dens of depravity, where patrons will lose themselves in the earthly pleasures of their natural bodily functions. Somewhere, hidden deep among the hedonists are young men and women with a sharp glint in their eyes. It is clear that they came here for more than just to pass gas. As the hedonists leave, these people stay back. When the area is finally rid of every last one of them, the others go to the back. They speak the password through a tiny eye-slit crudely welded into a thick metal door and pass inside, deeper into the lawless zone. The words are said, and another one enters. They speak with conviction through the eye-slit, “Viva la resistance!” Beyond the metal door, hipsters sit in a circle with their “Che” Guevara T-shirts, plotting to overthrow the flatulence-hating state. Never has freedom smelled so foul.
A new form of gas attack has been conceived. Before, the thought of attacking like this was funny, but now it sends a very clear message. With the Resistance, it has also become more common. After the first few attacks of this type, the public fears for its sense of smell. Mexican restaurant-goers are always under scrutiny. Much freedom has been lost. The struggle continues.
A particularly posh Dhaka neighbourhood put this law into effect after reading this article. They are denying entry to the horizontally blessed, and indeed anyone who looks like they may enjoy a good meal. Such is the level of perceived threat from these noxious bodily fumes.
Anonymous phone call(s)
Disclaimer: This is a humour piece and should be considered as such.