I fart uncontrollably. I find myself letting some go an average of 20 times a day. When I was younger it would to take a truckload of bean dip and a gallon of Cherry Coke at a sleepover party to get me going. Now I'm just a machine. If I lean back in my chair the wrong way something always creeps out. Sometimes it's a little silent pfffssst. Others are creaky little darts that elicit curious stares from my cubicle neighbors. When I get home, though, I unload -- big, cacophonous, thunder horns that shake the apartment walls. And I won't stop. Ever.

As an 11-year-old I remember being awed by my friend Mitch Forgoni's father at the way he'd expel gas seemingly on command. He was a tiny, spastic Italian man who just loved to fart. When he'd drive us to baseball games, he'd open the glove box, pretending to look for something and blast. When we'd be at his house watching television, he'd grab Mitch by the head and fart on it. Some of the other parents used to bad mouth Mr. Forgoni's because of his temperament and his obvious rough edges -- his ability to spout off curse words in two different languages while discussing things like picking up his mail was astounding, but I could see how it would rub people the wrong way. But was he a bad guy? He couldn't be in my eyes. Because I'd heard some of the most gloriously incomprehensible noises come out of his ass. And Mr. Forgoni didn't usually smile. He seemed consistently annoyed by something. However, when he beefed, he smiled. His ability to fart in front of others, albeit young kids, and not be ashamed nor care about what anybody thought was Mr. Forgoni's way of letting himself know that he'd arrived in this world and he could play by some of his own rules for once. At least that's what his farts were to me.

Farting is the great human equalizer. Just think if an authority figure -- a boss, a teacher, basically anybody older than 30 -- bombed in front of you. They are no longer these untouchable human shells, devoid of personality other than the ability to make you feel bad. The farts transform them. They suddenly are more approachable and understanding. They have souls. Same goes for celebrities. Imagine if you were hanging out with Brad Pitt and he just ripped one. Wouldn't that make you think he's the coolest man in America? Absolutely. It'd make you forget all about the fact that he's better looking than 99% of the population.

How people feel about farting is a great indicator of their personalities. It's the best way to tell if somebody's your friend or if the girl you're dating is the one to start seriously thinking about. Just sidle up and drop one unexpectedly and see how they react. Obviously, pick your spots -- a funeral or a formal dinner out with your significant other's family is universally bad taste. But after you've chosen the moment, take notes. Do they laugh? Do they scold you? Do they make you feel inferior? This is how you determine those whom you are closest to.

Remember your farts. The great ones. The ones that cleared rooms, the ones that made your sister cry, the ones that happened during math class. Remember when you farted in your friend's face who couldn't smell -- multiple times. Remember when you did it on the Mr. Microphone when you were younger in front of your cousins during Christmas. Remember the farts that happened under the covers, the one that slipped out in the crowded elevator, the ones that happened on leather seats. How about the one time when you put baby powder on your ass and you ran around farting white plumes of smoke down the shore. Remember the first time you heard your mother fart after Thanksgiving dinner and how she tried to blame it on the chair. Remember when your grandmother farted at the top of the stairs in a last ditch effort to make you stop carrying on. Remember that time your girlfriend farted when she leaned up on a barstool too quickly. Remember when your Dad did it while he was playing pool. And don't ever be ashamed of the ones that leave a mark. Those are the good ones. They really are.