"Don't get a swelled head." "Don't be a hot dog." Those were the messages I got when I was growing up. So I don't brag. There was that time I did share with you that I got one of those Mormon genealogy programs and had traced my lineage back to the Blessed Virgin Mother -- she and I both have the same jaw line and similar widow's peaks -- but I didn't make a big deal of it.
But please allow me to share humbly a proud performing moment. I was emceeing a three-day LGBT conference in a very lar-di-dar hotel. The confab was spectacularly conceived and executed with great workshops, practical laser-like political analysis, great hallway conversations and moving speeches. The problem was the vinyl chairs. Every time anyone shifted slightly, an embarrassing whoopee cushion sound of flatulence hung in the air like a bad joke. Attendees were mortified if they made the sound and nearly rigor-mortised to avoid making it again.
At the farewell brunch, after a few final housekeeping details, I asked everyone, on the count of three, to slide forward on their chairs. On three, the very elegant crowd slid forward and created a glorious non-methane producing blast, followed by sustained laughter. The featured speaker, a state governor about to take the podium, must have wondered what manner of fresh hell he had wandered into.
I don't brag, but I believe this joyfully juvenile moment shows why I am invited to work such classy events. Hell yes, I am proud to have presided over what I believe is the first-ever Fart Mob. I am going to recommend the action to the fearless activists at Get Equal; it has a bright future in the targeted disruption of homophobic speeches.