The great Julius Caesar is credited with one of our more common Latin phrases,
Veni, Vidi, Vici, or I came, I saw, I conquered.
Caesar doesn’t live in my house. If he did, he’d have the same expression on his face that he does in the above engraving (who farted?).
According to MedicalNewsToday.com, only about 1% of the gas we expel (what a polite way to put it) is nasty. We blame hydrogen sulfide, which is the merry ingredient that sends our friends flying out of the room. Only 1%?
They’ve never been to my house. Lots of fiber ingestion around here. Look, we can’t help it any more than a cow can. It’s part of the digestive process. Each of us emanates a good bit of gas every single day. Most of us try to prevent laying waste to a perfectly good friendship by farting in a friend’s car (make sure you have the Lyft app handy), and it does help to avoid letting loose in the middle of a big job interview.
Farting is a woman’s way of establishing territorial imperative. Let’s be clear: guys have cigars, we have farts. Which is why for so long nice girls, polite women sucked them back in until they could go for a good long walk out of earshot. They’re afraid of being seen as unfeminine.
I don’t suffer that problem. As an athlete, one thing you do not worry about (and can even use to your advantage in a crowded race) is your arsenal of farts. Some things you have to let fly when you’re running or climbing stairs. Apologize? Come ON man. Farting is one of life’s finest pleasures. Nature made us so that we could enjoy our own while sending others for the nearest exit.
If you’ve ever passed a carpool van full of people holding their noses- all but the driver, who is smiling-you know precisely what just happened.
Got a crowded two-man tent? Claim more room by opening up your sleeping bag and sharing. Sudden available space.
I mean, after all, with the potency of what I can produce, not only can I clear a room, I leave burn marks on the sheets. We are far more lively at night, which is one reason why the BF has a basement bedroom and I sleep upstairs with a moving fan. Not even the bulldog will come in there. That’s really saying something.
According to that same article, healthy folks like me produce between 12–25 farts a day, depending on what I eat. That’s where the fun comes in. A lot of what’s healthy (cauliflower and broccoli, and fruit for example) can add not only volume but the kind of nostril scorching farts that can kill off every plant in the house to say nothing of the local bird population, which will pick up their nests and move en masse to the next small town over.
The kinds of farts that can peel the paint off the woodwork. The kinds of farts that can end large wars. The kinds of farts that can shrink tumors. But I digress.
Suffice to say that now that the BF has moved in, I no longer do my best to avoid offending his handsome nostrils. You pays your money, you takes your chances. He’s done his fair share, which is how I know he’s no longer courting me. When the BF starts to fart, he’s comfortable. It’s time to scent the couch cushions as his own.
Proud Family History
I grew up in a farting family. My father didn’t need to have someone pull his finger. He could fart on command, such was his diet and sphincter control. My brother, who by some confluence of chemical reactions produced farts that could melt steel, was particularly intrigued by my father’s ability to entertain and offend.
One day we were playing in the garage, and my big brother decided to experiment with a bicycle pump when he was unable to call forth farts of sufficient size and quality. He inserted, I pumped. The results were less than satisfactory, but that didn’t dissuade him from attempting to compete with my father. Dad was a Jersey boy, and he knew how to obliterate the competition.
The next memorable moment was when my brother, then about twelve, decided to set his farts alight. This has a name, pyroflatulence or flatus ignition. You can’t make this shit up. As this was long before social media and YouTube videos, suffice it to say that he was conducting a potentally-lethal scientific experiment without the benefit of a fire extinguisher nearby. Nitrogen and carbon dioxide are right flammable, and the fire goes wherever the gas happens to be.
The results gave new meaning to the word “backfire.”
After he started dating, he found that the fastest way to induce a breakup with a now-undesirable girlfriend was to fart and then pull the sheets over her head. My family knew how to wield farts with deadly results. The only no-show was my mother, who, because she wanted to be ladylike, did her best to abstain. The other reason was her penchant for wearing a too-tight girdle, which reduced her output into high-pitched squeaks. It’s really hard to compete with potent flatulence with a squeak. Mom was a novice.
So this past week was the BF’s bulldog’s seventh birthday. His brother Todd and sister-in-law Susanne used to care for her, and have more dogs to boot (including a superbly handsome bully named Harry). They invited us over for a mid-July doggie birthday party complete with dog pool.
The weather cooperated by dropping thirty degrees and dropping a ton of rain on us, the kind of soaking, penetrating rain we’ve been praying for. But not on a barbeque night.
We ended up inside, with most of us hanging out in the kitchen or just downstairs in the open area on the couch. This allows the dogs to poke their heads through the railings and steal food off the plates while the humans are watching a movie.
The BF’s other brother, whom I’d never met, also showed up with a big dog. Now mind you, I’d only met the first brother nearly eleven years ago. So in many ways this was a formal introduction for me to almost the entire family of Jersey boys.
This is a bratwurst bunch. Anyone who has ever grown up in the midwest (think Packers, Bears) among NFL fans understands a steady diet of brats, cheese, sauerkraut and beer. The kinds of farts which ensue would put any proud methane-producing boxer or bulldog to shame. In fact, it’s a pity that someone hasn’t figured out a way to capture such a powerful energy source. Be that as it may, this family farts.
Previous boyfriends learned that on Thanksgiving, I am going to watch the game with the boys. No amount of kraut-fart or cigar smoke is going to shoo me out of the basement. Besides, you do not want to start a contest with me.
But these boys don’t fart in front of new people, especially women. That doesn’t stop me. Not in the slightest. Besides, the older I get, the less I care unless I have an audience with the Queen, which is highly unlikely. Look, at 92, I suspect that the Queen farts any time she wants to, and most especially sitting close to Donald Trump who has to smell and smile like he likes it.
So the evening was going well, everyone was mostly done with dinner. I was leaning on the railing over the lower living room when my body let fly.
Unfortunately, not only was this right over brother Todd’s head, but at that moment all the damned dogs had hightailed it to the other side of the house and there was nobody to blame.
“Where the hell did THAT come from?” Todd demanded, looking for a furry criminal.
“That was mine,” I said proudly. I’ve sown it, I own it.
I heard a choked sound off to my left where the BF was covering his face with his hands. His ears were red. I couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying. Or both.
Not my problem. I had just established my primacy.
Gorillas pound their chests.
The kitchen cleared. That’s how I got the last ear of corn to myself. Farts are right useful when there’s just one ear of corn left in the pot and there are three large men to compete with. Subterfuge be damned.
On the way home, the BF eyeballed me sideways. To say I was subjected to a stinkeye isn’t a play on words.
“You made quite an impression,” he intoned. He struggled to be serious. He had really wanted me to leave a lasting impact.
Hell, I did. What’s the problem?
His cheeks looked like a couple of cats were fighting inside his mouth. He was right proud of me.
“Uh, next time you might want to let my brothers take the lead in that department.”
Not on your life.
“You might want to put a cork in it.”
HAH. I was trained by a Jersey boy. I ain’t backing down.
Julius Caesar would be proud.