NOTE: Needless to say, this post is chock-full of
vulgar humor and coarse language.
It’s somewhere between PG-13 and R. Also: this post used to be called “Just A Bunch of Fart Jokes” but I’ve renamed it to (I hope) better capture the lofty literary realm I have striven to attain.
Introduction
Has your
humble blogger actually hit rock bottom?
Is this post like some Hail Mary to try to get somebody’s, anybody’s,
attention? Well, it’s true that the
albertnet page view count has been very low lately. And I admit, I’m pretty disappointed that
my review of the 1966 art film Andrei Rublev
hasn’t been a smash hit, despite its description of a nude bacchanal and its coinage
of the highly useful and suggestive phrase “Marfa-butt.” It seems the title alone scared readers away,
and I refuse to let that happen again.
I’m not just
acting on a hunch here. I did some
market research: googling “andrei rublev review” produced a paltry 52,700
results, while googling “fart jokes” yielded 1.5
million. Should I conclude
that the Internet is replete with fart jokes, meaning I should blog about
something else, now that I have your attention?
No, I would never do a bait-and-switch.
But I’m going to
take a page from my own playbook and try to elevate the fart joke from its lowly oral tradition to actual
Literature.
“But wait!”
you might ask, “aren’t you afraid of tarnishing the albertnet brand?” No, ever since I
blogged in gory detail about getting a vasectomy, there’s really nowhere I can’t go. “But
what if your mom sees this post—won’t she be offended?” Well, possibly—in fact, I might be doing
something passive-aggressive here, because my mom still hasn’t commented on my
Andrei Rublev post, for which she was
supposed to be my main audience. I’m a
little hurt.
Okay, enough
of this. On to the fart jokes!
Chiropractic
You should
know that I’m not going to tell one-line gags here, of the “Guy goes into a
bar” sort. I’ll start with a brief, true
story. Long ago, when my wife and I were
living in a tiny apartment in San Francisco, she had one of her friends
over. This friend, whom I’ll call M—, is
a striking woman—a former model, in fact—who stands about six feet tall, and
may have a reputation for being a flirt. I knew some friend was guilty of that, and this may have been that
friend. And my wife is the jealous type.
Anyway, out
of nowhere M— says, “Ooh, I have a crick in my back. Dana, can you help me out? I’ll stand here”—she stood with her arms at
her sides—“and you come up behind me, wrap your arms around me, and lift me off
the floor.” It was like a trap. Due to our similarity in height, things would
line up that really shouldn’t, what with me being married and all.
But what
could I do? It was so awkward. I couldn’t exactly say, “I’m sorry, M—, but
you might be the woman with a reputation for flirtatiousness, and
the way our bodies would line up, with my wife watching … well, it’s just that she
may not trust you, and may not even trust me, and I just can’t do it, but
please don’t be offended ... I really am tempted because it would feel pretty awesome.”
I had to
make a snap decision and concluded that my wife and I had a deep wellspring of
rapport and I could explain myself better to her, later, than I could ever
explain myself to our guest. So I went
around behind M—, wrapped my arms around her, and lifted her off the
floor. Sure enough, her back cracked,
making a noise like one of those little wooden frogs with the bumpy back that
you drag a wooden mallet over. “Did you
hear it?” M— said, delighted. “Did you
hear my back crack?” I replied, “Oh, is that what that was … I thought you
farted!” If she had been enjoying any
sexual tension, it was immediately dissipated (and replaced, of course, by
something less pleasant). I glanced over
at my wife, who gave me a look that said, “You have done well.”
In the van
My pals and
I were driving back from
the Everest Challenge in the van. The driver, whom I’ll call
Thing 1, had extreme flatulence. The
front seat passenger, Thing 2, was suffering the worst. These guys have known each other for well
over a decade and have a totally frank, matter-of-fact rapport. Here is my best effort to capture their
dialogue about all the farting:
Thing
1: “I’ve noticed that you’re extremely
quick about rolling down your window every time I fart.”
Thing
2: “Yes, I’ve had to develop coping
mechanisms.”
Thing
1: “You’ve got your finger hovering over
the window button. It’s been like that
for the last hundred miles.”
Thing
2: “I’ve developed a nervous tick around
it. It’s totally automatic now. I’ll be doing this in my sleep.”
Thing
1: “It’s the pizza. I shouldn’t have eaten a whole pizza by
myself. I don’t do well with the white
flour.”
Thing
2: “I’m going to have a repetitive
stress injury in my finger. I’m going to
have arthritis.”
Not everybody thinks farts are funny
You have to
admit, farts are pretty funny. And yet
I’ve come across people who refuse to admit it.
True, many of us get jaded by cheap performance-art gags like using your
hand in your armpit to make a fart sound, which cracks kids up so
dependably. And actually, there are
people out there who really, truly don’t think farts are funny at all.
(Microsoft
programmers apparently fall into this group; Word has flagged “fart,” in the
phrase “fart jokes,” as a misspelling, and when I right-click “fart” the
spell-checker suggests “fat.” I guess
these programmers think fat jokes are funnier than fart jokes. They are so
out of touch.)
My dad is a
person who simply sees nothing funny about farts. He is very old-school in the sense that he
evidently thinks farts should absolutely never be witnessed. I have never actually heard him fart. He’s even too discreet to produce a
silent-but-deadly fart. It’s amazing. (Not that the polar opposite is in any way
better, like the freethinking stepfather who did too much est in the ‘70s and
just lets loose at will, thinking that with every burst he’s showcasing his advanced
self-esteem).
As a father,
I’m very different. No, I’m not some
lax, so-called progressive dad who wants his kids to see him as a pal. I’m pretty strict; I won’t even let my kids
use the word “fart.” And no, I don’t
think all farts are funny, but I won’t pretend they never are. Here’s a little case
study. In my home office, there is only
one proper desk chair, though my giant desk will accommodate three people at a
time. The most popular desk chair
alternative is this giant exercise ball.
So one day my daughter and I were computing side by side, and one of us,
sitting on the ball, had one of those sudden come-out-of-nowhere farts, a short
and powerful one that makes the “BRROEMP!” noise. It echoed magnificently through the ball,
sounding vaguely metallic, kind of droid-like, like when you throw a rock at one
of those giant municipal water tanks.
Now that is just plain funny. We
both roared with laughter. Someday when
my daughter is in treatment and her therapist asks, “Wasn’t there anything good about your father? A single episode where his love for you came
through?” she’ll reply, “Well, he once committed the most hilarious flatulence
into this exercise ball….”
(Not that
I’m necessarily copping to the ball-fart.
In all honesty, I don’t remember which of us did it. And if you suspect I’m just being evasive,
well ... you may be right.)
Getting back
to my own father, I think he’s too dignified even to sit on an exercise ball,
unless it’s in an official yoga class. Meanwhile,
his brain occupies a higher plane than ours, devoting itself to lofty and
complicated ideas, especially in the science and math realms. Dinner table conversations usually took the
form of my dad lecturing his four sons about science, computers, and futuristic
stuff. At table, there was very little
joking around, and never an audible fart.
Except this one time.
Here’s what
happened. Of course I can’t remember
exactly what my dad was lecturing on, but let’s suppose the topic was the interferometer
he was building at work. What, you don’t
know what an interferometer is? Here’s a
photo:
I’m pretty
sure interferometers measure the strength of farts. (No they don’t.)
So, there we
were at the dinner table, my dad deep into explaining the various lasers and
whatnot comprising his interferometer, and suddenly—somebody farted loudly. This had never happened because we were
terribly afraid of what might transpire if it did, and there was a long,
awkward silence as we boys tried to compose ourselves. Then the awkwardness became funny (the fart
had of course been funny all along), and we looked at each other, the tension
thick, all our lips pursed, jaws clenched, and then somebody lost it and it was
like dominoes. The harder we laughed,
the harder we laughed, and finally my dad, disgusted, got up from the table and
stormed off. He never returned to his
dinner, and afterward my brother Geoff complained, “I never got to hear about
the interferometer, and now I’m afraid to ask because it might remind him of
the fart. Or I might start laughing all
over again.”
(“But wait,”
you might ask, “aren’t you afraid of offending your dad with this post?” Nope.
He doesn’t read my blog; like so many people, he finds my posts too
long. Besides, as I already said, he
doesn’t think farts are funny! You think
his first albertnet post is gonna be “Just A Bunch of Fart Jokes” ? But just in case he’s reading, let me say
this: Dad, I think you’re actually in
the right here. I used to think it would
be funny to see a guy step in dog shit, but I realized recently that these days
I wouldn’t actually find this funny, and
moreover I can’t remember why I ever thought it would. So maybe I’m maturing and growing as a
person, and someday might reach your level and no longer laugh at farts.)
Spotting
My college
cycling team was sponsored by Gold’s Gym and during the off-season I adopted a
weight-lifting regimen with some pals.
We were purists, favoring free weights over Nautilus machines. Being unable to add bulk to my muscles, I was
following the high-weight low-rep program of a track sprinter. My pals—two men and two women—and I would
bike over there at 5:30 in the morning, four days a week.
One morning
I was doing the squats, at what I considered a dangerously high weight. We weren’t fools: we wore weight belts and always had somebody
spotting us. If necessary, the spotter,
standing a few feet behind, would step forward, grab your waist, and help you stand
up. Between sets I chatted away with my
spotter, a young woman I’ll call S—. One
morning she asked, “Dana, do you like dancing?”
I was so dense I didn’t realize this might be a leading question, and
answered simply (and honestly), “No.”
It was
during my next set, specifically the eighth and final rep, when I was in a full
squat, thighs splayed, with this giant bar across my shoulders and giant disks
on either side, trying with all my might to stand, that two things dawned on
me. One, S— had actually been hinting
around about going out with me (which finally answered the question of why a
young woman who wasn’t that serious a cyclist and presumably wasn’t looking to
bulk up would go to the gym with me at 5:30 a.m.). My second realization was that I had to fart,
and there was no real way to stop it. Veins
were bulging in my forehead, my legs trembling, and it was all I could do to
safely finish my squat without needing help.
So out it went, a big ol’ ripper, with poor S— standing so close behind
me.
I apologized
profusely, and she responded forlornly, “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter anyway.”
It’s a pity;
I totally would have asked her out, but I recognized the opportunity in the same
moment I squashed it.
Internalized
My wife had
a friend over. The friend, P—, had driven some way to visit; she was going
through some hard times. My wife was
upstairs changing or putting on makeup or something before the two of them went
out. So I sat at the kitchen table with P—
trying to make conversation. P—’s
personal troubles were making this difficult, like a dark cloud was hanging over
us. The chitchat occasionally sputtered
and stalled, and to my horror I realized a big fart was gathering in my lower
regions. Isn’t it weird how you can tell
in advance whether or not a fart will be silent? This one definitely wouldn’t. And it was growing and growing inside me and
I wasn’t sure it could be contained. I
barely knew this woman and the last thing this conversation needed was that kind
of explosive, smelly interruption.
I thought
maybe I should just leave, but the nascent fart had grown too big. I was practically trembling down there and I
was sure that, if I stood up, it would definitely burst out. By an act of fierce concentration I was able
to keep my sphincter puckered up tight so the fart couldn’t escape. And then the weirdest thing happened: the fart came to fruition without ever
leaving my body. It detonated
internally, making a muted but quite audible sound, like an underground nuclear
test. The worst part was that it
happened during a lull in our chitchat, so I was sure P— had heard it. I couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened, but
“excuse me” seemed like too great a capitulation. It was just barely possible that P— wouldn’t
realize the what sound was. But I had to
say something, and somehow settled on, “Wow, that was weird.” I immediately knew I’d only made things
worse, but fortunately my wife appeared at that very moment and ended the
stalemate.
How to talk about farting
Let’s not
kid ourselves: everybody farts. Probably most couples are somewhat casual
about farting in each other’s presence.
After all, in some circumstances, like a long road trip, it would be bad
for your health to suppress a fart for too long. But how couples feel about their farts surely
varies, with one end of the spectrum being the abominable practice of the
“Dutch oven” (making a hermetic seal with the bedclothes to trap your
significant other in with your fumes), and the other extreme being acute
embarrassment.
So, this
next bit isn’t actually drawn from personal experience, but is more of a
hypothetical situation informed by the great amount of thought I have given to
flatulence. Suppose your wife or
girlfriend has a stomach bug or ate too much of the wrong thing or whatever,
and is on a farting tear, and decides that the frequency of her flatulence is beginning
to erode her dignity. So she approaches
you in a conciliatory mode and is trying to make a generalized
apology/explanation, to try to save face.
Of course you want her to dismiss the thought and stop worrying about it
(if for no other reason than your vested interest in your mate feeling sexy).
Here’s what
to do. Have in mind a very celebrated
beauty, whose very name summons notions of loveliness and elegance. (You should probably not choose a
contemporary beauty, lest your wife worry that you sit around dreaming of
starlets.) Now peer into your
significant other’s eyes and say, “Look, everybody farts, and worse. No less a beauty than Grace Kelly had to wipe
her own ass. She had to spot-check
between wipes to determine when she was done.
I don’t know whether she was a TP folder or a wadder, but I guarantee
she was one of the two.” This should help.
Suzy Chapstick
My family
took a ski trip recently. We stayed at a
lodge where all the meals are included.
The chef’s special pork chili was really, really good. I ate like four bowls, not counting what I
inherited from my daughters. The next
day I had what I’m pretty sure was the worst chronic flatulence of my life
(which,
as my cycling buddies will tell you, is really saying something).
After a day
of skiing my kids abandoned their equipment and headed off toward the lodge,
leaving me to trail behind schlepping three pairs of skis and poles. So I was stumbling awkwardly along and dropped
one of the poles. I was on a hill and
the snow was icy, so the pole slid a ways.
I figured hey, I’ll just take this opportunity to stop for awhile and
pass some more gas. These were all silent,
but they were the really hot kind, and
the smell was just absolutely putrid, as though an old man, smeared from head
to toe with your dad’s stinky ointment, had died while cradling a giant wheel
of foreign cheese, and then man and cheese rotted away for two weeks together before
being discovered.
So I was
standing there waiting for the smell to dissipate when from out of nowhere came
this very chipper young woman, reminding me a lot of
Suzy Chapstick (aka Suzy Chaffee, the ‘70s version of
Lindsey Vonn). “I’ll get it!” she chirped,
and helpfully retrieved my fallen pole. I
felt so bad for her … I mean, here she was, just trying to be nice, and then
she enters this horrible toxic cloud.
Needless to say, her attitude changed fast when the smell hit her. Once I had my pole back, she was off like a
shot. I’m surprised she didn’t just drop
it at my feet.
Restroom
What happens
in the restroom, stays in the restroom. It
seems like the most discreet place to go when you need to do a lot of farting
in a public venue. So on the way back
from our ski vacation, at a Mexican restaurant in Auburn, I headed in there to
do some serious offgassing after an hour in the car. I took my time, trying to get it all out, and
there was some jerk who kept knocking loudly and vigorously trying the
doorknob. I kept having to call out
“Just a minute!” and “Occupied!” This
went on and on and I couldn’t believe the audacity of this guy. So when I finally left, I was planning to
give him some serious stink-eye, but then I flashed on the legacy I had left in
there, and knew this wasn’t even necessary.
Who needs stink-eye when I’d given him stink?
