Reality Check. Underwear Check. Embarrassment: Check.

First and foremost, I would like to apologize for my last blog entry. I just read it, and it's really not that funny.

If you took the time to read it, check your mail this week, there should be a 50 dollar check made out to you for having to put up with that horseshit.

I've recently come to grips with some basic realities in my life.

The most important of them all is that flatulance and excessive sweating in the gym is not an accepted practice.

There's a reason Abs and IBS are only 1 letter different.

Every day, I spend roughly an hour in the gym, doing a pre-practice workouts. I'll do some core work, mainly ab's and I will shoot in the gym afterwards.

This past week, I was doing some particularly difficult ab workouts, and it just so happened to be right after lunch at our world-renowned cafeteria.

I was feeling a bit flatulent, but I was certain I could mask this urge by strategically letting out grunts, timed preisely with my release of gastric tension.

I figured I was a master at this by now, and I was sure nobody could even tell I was farting, cuz all they would hear is the "Ugh" or "Aaagh" between repititions.

As opposed to the "Pfffffft" and "Buuuuurrrgh" from my anal cavity.

Note to self: Not everyone in the gym is wearing headphones at full blast, and not everyone in the gym is a hairy 40 year old man using their whole body as momentum for bicep curls.

P.S.- The gym is also a hot-spot for attractive female college students. The same ones that stare at you when your hairy white legs are dangling in the air and you leave the floor-mats with a curious scent of pumpkin seeds upon departure.

I don't even eat pumpkin.

P.P.S.- Sean, you are an idiot.

As I move on to my next exercise, I am peering out of the corner of my eye, towards one particularly attractive lady.

I wish I could tell you I was looking at her to check her out, but the truth is I was looking at her to see if she picked up on the stench of asshole mysterically lingering near the ab-floor-mats.

Yes. Yes she did.

Her and her friend appear to find this quite comical.

As I am legally deaf, listening to my Ipod at full blast, my brain starts to wonder what they could be saying.

I could have sworn they were mouthing the lyrics to the Anberlin song attacking my eardrums.

Girl 1: "Was this over before/before it ever began?"

Girl 2" "Your lips/your lies/your lust, like the devils got your hands."

Wrong.

Turns out they were saying:

Girl 1: "Oh my god/do you smell that horrific stench?"

Girl 2: "It's singeing my nose hairs./ I can taste it."

I begin to panic, while I am trying to crank out the reps fifteen feet away, I decide to pretend like it wasn't me. I avoid eye contact at all costs, pretending that the east side of the Gym doesn't exist.

I press play on my Ipod and their choking and questioning is replaced by monster guitar riffs and drum solo's.

I'm off. Free. They'll never know.

But they caught me red-handed.

Like the chalk-outline of the victim at the murder scene, the sweat-soaked pad was accompanied by an outline that matched the build of...say a 6'7 210 pound Freshman who can't control his bodily functions in public?

The mat might as well have jumped up, hopped over to the girls and said, "Hey guys, you know that pumpkin seed smell? Mixed with a rotting corpse? Yeah, it's that goofy kid over there doing sit-ups."

Thankfully, the personified Mat decided to take the day off, so I'm thinking maybe they weren't sharp enough to put 2 and 2 together.

Just as I'm finishing my final reps, I'm a bit caught up in my imagination, and as I crank out the last few, I feel a huge rumble, like some of earth's tectonic plates are shifting beneath me.

I forgot to grunt.

I look around, and I swear 25 new people decided to start working out at that exact moment.

I make the biggest mistake of my life. I take my headphones out, subtlely look around, and the girls are laughing.

Not like the kind of laughing that's like "oh...that's a funny story."

It was more like the kind of laughing that's like "Oh...my god, somebody get that kid a diaper."

As i come back to reality, I begin to realize the magnitude of what just happened.

Roughly 30 people are being bombarded with traces of my flatulance, and most likely, are not happy about it.

I start to hear bits and pieces of the girls conversation, most of it whispers and snickers, but in a last ditch effort to preserve my dignity, I plug my Ipod, and switch to the song that could cure any situation.

Instead of the real life conversation between the girls:

Girl 1: "I can't tell if it's rude or if I'm just embarrassed for him."

Girl 2: "I can't tell if he ate six pounds of pig intestines, or if I have to transfer schools to escape the stench."

As far as I could tell, they were saying:

Girl 1: "He's too sexy for his shirt...too sexy for his shirt."

Girl 2: "He's so sexy it hurts..."

When Itunes meet's a willing imagination, dreams are made, and reputations are saved.

At least until Monday.