In Central Park, a sad, trenchcoat-wrapped vagrant shuffled past pigeons and discarded needles. Somewhere between a sigh and a cough, he unleashed a fart of such ambition that it tore a hole in the laws of probability. Ten thousand miles away, Beijing opened it's umbrellas as if choreographed by fate. Scientists later called it "atmospheric chaos," but we all know the truth: sometimes, the apocalypse starts with a little toot.
If you take one fart and multiply it by 8 billion humans, you don't just get a joke—you get a weather pattern. And that's assuming everyone limits themselves to one fart per day, which is adorable. That's like assuming people only check their phone once.
Reality is more... ambitious. Breakfast alone can trigger a preview. Add coffee and suddenly you're eligible for carbon credits.
And somehow, in all our very serious climate charts, HUMAN FARTS are mysteriously missing. We've listed cars, planes, factories, cows—especially cows—but not the eight billion methane interns walking around in pants. Apparently once gas passes through denim, it becomes morally neutral.
Meanwhile, the planet is also hosting about 1.5 billion cows, roughly 1 billion pigs, and something like 25 billion chickens, all converting feed into atmospheric seasoning. They belch like extinction is a group project. Four stomachs, fully committed. Attendance mandatory. Our future air-biscuits make their own air-biscuits!
So yes, we measure carbon footprints, tailpipes, and smokestacks with great seriousness. But the greatest collective emission event in human history is happening right now, quietly, constantly, and with no regulatory oversight.
Mostly because no one wants to be the scientist who puts "Human Farts" on a PowerPoint slide—and that's how the apocalypse slips in through the back door. Silently, but with deadly intent
Just a thought.