A friend of ours is married to a wonderful woman. She’s sweet, thoughtful, and because she’s not from our friend’s “home” culture, she is often the victim of his jokes. Early on in their marriage, he stuck his index finger out towards her and pleaded with her to pull it. With no pop-culture reference or stupid boy humour experience to refer to, she naively pulled his finger. Of course, he let one rip (“one” being air of the flatulence nature, for those not sure what I’m getting at). He laughed and then stuck his finger out again, asking her to pull it. “No.” “Oh, come on (giggle)! I promise (giggle) I won’t fart again. (giggle-giggle)” She pulled it, and *shaking my head* he farted again. The gales of laughter could be heard from across the city. He was enjoying himself way too much. Inching his index finger closer into her personal-bubble space, he wiped away the giggle tears with his other hand and gasped, “Pull my finger.” “No, you’ll just fart again.” “There is no way that I could fart three times in a row!” She pulled it. He farted.

For some reason, I told this story the other day over lunch. Charlie thought it was so funny, and laughed and laughed. Slowly, he raised his hand to eye level, and extended his index finger. With eyes wide and full of wonder, he pulled it. He farted. It really works.