Be honest for once — have you ever let one slip, believing yourself blissfully alone, and then… lingered? Sat there in the warm afterglow, savoring the bouquet, reverse-engineering last night’s dinner from its aromatic fingerprints? Of course you have. We all adore the scent of our own farts; it’s a small, shameful enthrallment baked into the human condition.
What fart-sniffing is to the corporate drone — that private little indulgence — is precisely what falling hopelessly in love with one’s own model is to the scientist, the trader, the medic, the polished professional who believes their diploma endows them with divine insight. Their theories are their gas clouds: warm, intoxicating, entirely self-produced, and praised only by the producer.
When I was a kid, I fantasized about perfection. A world where everything clicked into place flawlessly, without error, without doubt, without that irritating human element. It was harmless nonsense — juvenile brain farts that evaporated the moment reality entered the room. No impact. No consequence. Just an indulgence of imagination.But the modern scientist does not permit such humility. Their brain farts are rebranded as “settled truth,” and when reality — the stubborn, uncooperative kind — dares to knock on the door and declare otherwise, it must be subdued, rewritten, or gagged outright. The model cannot be wrong. Only the world is.