Before we get to an anthropological dissertation about flatulence, I must begin with a confession that will shock many of you. Here goes:
I am a bigamist.
I for years have kept a secret family, entirely separate from and unbeknownst to the family I splash all over Facebook so people will think I’m a swell guy in the traditional sense.
Coincidentally, my secret family consists of a wife to whom I’ve been married 25 years and two daughters, ages 21 and 15 — just like my Facebook family! In fact, my two families are exactly the same in every respect save for one characteristic of my shame family:
My shame family farts.
Oh, boy, do they. They let ‘em rip.
My primary family doesn’t fart. They never have. None of ‘em. Not even once. They’re the ones who know to not under any circumstances accept my pleas that someone — for the love of God — please pull my finger.
So if you think any thing you’re about to read is based on the actions of my Facebook wife or either of our Facebook daughters, you are mistaken. They’re far too proper to stoop to farting which, by the way, is a posture I recommend for beginners.
All the observations are based solely on what I’ll for now call my Fart Family.
I’ve heard it said the Inuit have 47 different words for snow.
I’ll wager we have that many for the fart. There’s the bottom burp, butt bugle, the one-cheek squeak, the anal ahem, ass thunder, backdoor breeze, the stinker. As a kid, we used to for some forgotten reason call it “shooting a bunny.”
I mention this because I’m toying with the idea of really letting one rip at the Thanksgiving dinner table.
“Pass the stuffing — ttttthhhhhhhhuuulllppp!”
A real plate rattler.
The key will be to maintain a poker face while everyone at the table stares gape-jawed at me awaiting some awkward apology, one that would not be forthcoming.
The trigger will be the instant Grandpa brings up politics.
I think this is the Thanksgiving America should welcome the fart to the dinner table.
I fear too many meals are jeopardized by partisan bellyachers eager to ruin this special holiday by monologuing about Trump, Fauci, Rittenhouse, Kamala, Tomlin, Taylor Swift vs. Jake Gyllenhaal or any of the radioactive topics people use to divide us.
A fart would emphatically change the conversation.
America is tearing herself apart. Let the fart bring her together!
Everyone loves to fart. More satisfying than even a splashy sneeze, a fart is considered in some earthy nations a sign of appreciation for a satisfying meal, although I hope for the sake of our nation’s waitresses the custom doesn’t replace folding money in the tip realm.
My Fart Family would roar their approval. A good, loud fart is to them a benchmark others strive to beat — and, yes, I deliberately chose to use the term benchmark for a bodily function that has the potential to leave marks on benches.
They understand flatulence is a natural by-product of a healthy digestive system. They demonstrate their advocacy by farting in ways that fill me with recollections of the old fraternity house in Athens, Ohio.
My eyes tear up just recalling the ambiance — and those tears aren’t from sweet nostalgia. My eyes still sting from the stink.
Those were the days when young like-minded scholars could expound for hours on topics like: “If farting were an Olympic event, what would the matches look like?”
The precise wording was key because, of course, lighting farts is a marvelous spectacle so matches would be involved. Or maybe a lighter. Or how about …
The Olympic Torch!
I’ve ignited the interest of my Fart Family when I told them of an old friend who used to speculate on what life would be like if we could all see farts.
“It’s coming straight for us! Duck!”
Feel free to take my idea about farting should your drunken uncle decide to share his expertise on topics like epidemiology or constitutional law.
There are bound to be some of you who think I’m just being silly. That I’m pulling your leg.
I certainly am not pulling your leg.
But in keeping with the spirit of the sentiment, I'll be happy to pull your finger.
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