Men just want to be remembered. Whether it's by conquering the most land, the most broads, or the most Waffle House hashbrowns in under 30 minutes, we want to do something that will make people say, "Hey, that KC Freeman—he DID something with his life."

We want to be remembered for our deeds, by our work and blah blah. Mostly, we hope those around us will think of that one big thing we've done.

And I finally did that.

This Friday at work was a long one. I was still recovering from a bout with food poisoning. I don't mind taking my pants off and on ten times a day—just not to crap. So I loaded up with some Immodium A-D, some weird Korean pink pills and some traditional herb medicine.

Then I taught children how to say, "I like the blue car better than the red one."

Finally, the day ended and the weekend was supposed to begin. I loaded up my man-purse and decided to cut loose, with a fart. I thought nothing of it, except that I felt more relaxed and had something new to laugh at.

Now, remember, I'd been dropping about ten squishers a day. This particular evening, I was only at three. Where'd the other seven go?

Into that fart.

Now, I did NOT crap my pants. But it didn't even smell like a shart. That fart didn't smell like an outhouse, a barn, a zoo, your mom, Obama's speeches, New Jersey, Mexico, Indian food, the inside of a Taun Taun, that meat you forgot to take out of the fridge before you left for a vacation, or even despair. I don't know what the hell it smelled like. But it stunk. Bad.

There are couch-clearing farts and room-clearing farts. This was a floor-clearing fart.

Other teachers were opening and closing their doors trying to prevent the death smell from creeping into their room. Some ran out of the building. My boss who's got a one-year-old and talks lovingly about changing diapers said, "Oh Gawd. What the hell is that?"

Even the Koreans, who don't carry the same stigma Americans have with Number Two, rushed out of the building.

My students, who raise their hands and say, "I need to poo poo" (which would be social suicide in the States) long left the premises screeching.

Our poor Korean secretaries ran back and forth wondering if the North Koreans all of a sudden decided to gas bomb our little school. Nope. It was me.

How did they know it was me?

Surprisingly, I don't think anybody has smelled one of my farts out here. I still bomb them here and there, but I guess nobody has gotten a true whiff.

But there was no identifying the prank with the stank. I was the only laughing. Everybody else darted like the twerps in old Godzilla movies or swore in Korean. Me? I leaned against the wall and laughed. I hoped my visa wouldn't be revoked for assaulting so many undeserving citizens, but what could I do?

Finally, everyone exited the building and the doors were sealed like an old Egyptian tomb. Will the fart still smell on Monday? I don't know. I really don't want to find out.

Because either or, I'm shamed. From now on, I believe I'll be remembered as, "That American teacher who dropped the nastiest fart in Asia. Ever. And there are like twelve billion people here."

The rest of the teachers forced me to use the stairs. I hung my head in even more shame. Outside, the scene looked like a fire scorched the building. People standing without jackets, crying and screaming "Why!?!?"

And then another question came.

"What the fuck, KC?" Robot asked.

"Dude, you should have seen how my students acted. Only I wouldn't let them out of the room."

"No wonder they're always drawing pictures of you getting killed."


"Someday you'll be sixty years old and some billionaire Korean is going to send you a postcard telling you about how your fart changed their life."

"And that's how I'll be remembered I guess."