To say that my recent trip to Seattle was life-affirming would be a monumental understatement. The wife and I have had the honor of traveling all over the country due to our convention schedule. We’ve seen a lot of states over the last ten years. Nowhere else have we had such an instant connection on a primal level as we have with Seattle. There is literally something about the air that compels us to return.

Since our first visit there have been rumblings about our packing up our lives and moving Northwest. The problem is that there seem to be insurmountable obstacles in our path, the biggest being the comparative cost of living. Despite that, the more time passes the more it feels that not moving there is a huge mistake. Seattle feels more like home with every visit. To quote Mr. Spock from Star Trek II, it feels like our “first, best destiny.”

So we’re beyond dreaming now. We’re planning. We’re making plans. And there is a very good chance that sometime very soon, I’ll be operating out of Seattle and working in very close proximity to my friends over at Penny-Arcade. Which brings me to the one big problem with Seattle.

Nobody farts up there.

Farting is kind of my forte. Some would say it’s my medium of choice. We all fart down here. I dunno what to say. We cut loose, literally. We laugh at each other, we have unspoken contests. We use farts to finish sentences. It’s something that I thought was a universal guy-thing. I thought it was a rite-of-passage that all men experienced around college age at the very least.

But when I farted in Seattle, you would have thought that the guys walked in and found me hunched over the body of dead hooker with a bloody knife in my hand saying “It’s not what it looks like.” They could not fathom that I had purposely done this. They wanted to understand how a human being could, in good conscious, allow such an atrocity to take place.

I tried in vain to explain to these guys that farting is such a normal thing. I also tried to enlighten them about the inherent humor in farts. How yeah, it stinks, but god-DAMN it’s funny just to hear one. But the more I tried to explain myself, the more disgusted they became with me.

Tycho summed it up in one phrase. “You are a prisoner of your own butt.”

So now I’m known as the fart guy up there. And I’m sure that won’t go away once I move. If anything, it will only get worse. So I’m trying to find a away to own it. To be proud of my obsession with my own emissions. Penny-Arcade strips like today’s aren’t going to make things any easier. When I first read it I thought “Oh man! I can’t believe that they worked it into a strip. Awesome!” Then I thought “Wait. Is Tycho comparing me to a Carny because I fart?” Regardless, doesn’t the fact that our philosophical logger-heading on farts made such a classic PA strip only prove my point? I think so. I’m sure they’ll disagree.

Farts are art, guys. Prepare yourself for it. Because the air up there might be getting a bit thicker once I arrive.