Let it never be said that Wexford Sunshine will not sink to their level…or anybody’s level for that matter. I hold myself to no higher standards – nay, I am as fallible as the next man, and almost as petty as the next Kim. Thus, I have a confession to make: I fart on old people.
But lest ye judge me too hastily: allow me to put you in context. Some of our earliest readers may recall the description of Wake Me and my morning commute. Although she rides the bus and I the subway, both of us are accosted by the presence, both physical and olfactory, of teeming hoards of Kims as we plod our way to work. More often than you would expect these folk are wicked old and wicked nasty. Nasty both in the sense of reeking of garlic, smoke and rotting cabbage, as well as being mean spirited old hags. The smell comes mostly from the old men, who eat raw garlic every morning and breathe it all over you in the steamy confines of a subway car. Since I don’t have the breath to combat the Kims, I respond with my only other weapon – a well placed fart. Whether or not the male Kims can smell my flatulence, (or indeed can smell anything at all after years of living in Seoul), is questionable. Nonetheless, I try to position myself in front of the oldest, most foul-breathed man I can find before unleashing my morning barrage.
You may think this is a disproportionate response, particularly if you’ve never smelled anyone who eats kimchi and garlic for 3 meals a day. Well in addition to their breath these guys are often jerks - but it’s their female counterpart who is truly vicious. We have occasionally referred in these pages to the dreaded Ajuma – the Korean grandma. It is this creature of darkness that more than any other factor inspires me to make war on my fellow commuters.
Somehow sweet, demure little Korean girls evolve into beastly brutes after they have children. Maybe it’s a result of years of enduring this blatantly sexist and chauvinistic society that finally hardens them, but whatever the justification, the Ajuma is rude and aggressive – and not afraid to drop some elbows as she and her gaggle of accomplices vie for the few available seats on my hour long early morning commute. Don’t just take my word for it though – apparently there’s a Korean joke that goes “there are 3 sexes in Korea: male, female and Ajuma”. The Kims are just as oppressed by the Ajuma as I am, and they are equally baffled by her violent tendencies. When an Ajuma has succeeded in punching you out of her way, she will fix you with the death stare for daring to gape at her behavior. She will then proceed to slam the window shut, no matter how obscenely hot it is in your bus or train car. (I believe this has something to do with the cold blooded circulatory system of the Ajuma, but it may also be connected to a fear of fresh-ish air common to many Kims).
Upon exiting the train the Ajuma will shove past you to be first on the escalator. Since she invariably stands still on the escalator once achieving her position, I believe this is simply a form of primal competition for the Ajuma. She is not actually concerned about getting anywhere quickly. In fact why the hell are the Ajumas even riding the train at 7am? They have no jobs, nor any reason to pick rush hour to take care of some other business. Pondering all of this makes a fellow start to believe that the Ajumas are simply out to fuck with you.
Thus after being stuck behind one too many Ajumas on the escalator as I attempted to reach my connecting train on time, I decided to hold some of my farts until I reach the stairs, depositing them at face level as I push past the unmoving old Kims.
Once I get on my second train of the day I am generally drained of gas. Therefore I spend the rest of my morning eyeing the passengers who have managed to score seats. Which one is about to get off? Is that the old guy who got off at the second stop last week? Once I find my mark I prepare for the last stage of my morning war of attrition. I must make a tactical decision in my strategic battle against the Ajuma – how shall I stand so as to make it impossible for the old bag to grab the seat I’m scoping out if I’m lucky enough to see it vacated. If I flinch for second, or if I start to doze off standing up, she will throw me aside the minute my seat becomes available. Then I will be left to stand on my tired legs for another 45 minutes, slowly suffocating in garlic.
I could be a gentleman of course and simply cede vacant seats to the old people. I could even try to contain my gas, saving the fart for open air. But if I did I would the biggest sucker in Seoul. Absolutely nobody here gives up a seat for an Ajuma or an old man. They may not all use flatulence in their battle, but all the Kims recognize that this is War, and the prize for second place is not getting to sleep through the noxious commute.
