I didn't wake up this morning thinking I should do a blog posting about farts.
But then this (the picture above) showed up in my mailbox.
And I knew instantaneously (thrrrrp, thrrrrp) that I had no choice. I should write about farts.
No, I must write about farts.
Even at this advanced age, 44, I still find farts and farting funny. My wife and daughters do not share this affinity and often look down their clenched noses when I indulge. But I am sure that when I am long gone and they grow misty eyed in my absence, they will shed a tear and say something like:
"I'd give anything if he were just here for five more minutes, sitting in his leather chair and letting a few good seat burners rip (thrrrrrrrrrp....thrrrrrrp.....thrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp.)"
Farts are funny. They just are.
Burps are funny too. But somehow air leaving the body from the bottom orifice are much funnier. George Carlin, Robert Klein, Richard Pryor, never did bits about burping, but they sure had a lot to say about farting. And since I am their offspring as much as I am that of Mr. & Mrs. Siegel, it seems only natural that affectation has been affectionately passed down.
In pre-pandemic times I will cop to several fart crimes, as it were.
Not long ago I was working a gig in Century City; the building had a very strange elevator system. (Please note the use of a semi-colon in the previous sentence. I rarely use this writing utensil but it gave me the opportunity to squeeze the word colon into a post about farting.)
They were express elevators. Meaning, once the doors closed, they would not open again until the elevator reached its destination. Did I take advantage of this forced solitude? Let your phantom olfactory sense reach its natural conclusion.
For those still in doubt, let me recall an anecdote with actual witnesses. Years ago, while toiling in the town of Smell Segundo, an oil refinery town with its own foul aroma and a host of nicknames, I went to lunch with the two Gregs, from Team One.
We strolled down Sepulveda Blvd. and stopped at a place called WoodPit, WoodFire, WoodBurgers, that part I don't remember. However I do remember that after a long wait for our messy cheeseburgers we were finally enjoying our meal. While a group of French tourists sitting directly behind us were enjoying their post-meal cigarettes. I don't know how Europeans lay claim to being the center of fine culture with all that disgusting smoking and eating, sometimes simultaneously, but I did know this will not abide.
"Excuse me, we are trying to enjoy our lunch, can you go outside and smoke?"
"voulez-vous coucher avec moi, se soir."
"I said we're eating. Do you mind not smoking?"
"voulez-vous coucher avec moi, se soir."
"Look if you expect me to put up with your smoking then you won't mind putting up with my farting."
They laughed and waved me off with a casual flick of the wrist. Showing my appreciation for French artistry, I conjured up the ghost of Sir Joseph Pujol, best known as Le Petomane, casually lifted a leg and sounded my own cor francais.
Their effete mockery quickly turned to stunned shockery. Instinct kicked in and they quickly fled in retreat.
And those cheeseburgers were delicious.
They were express elevators. Meaning, once the doors closed, they would not open again until the elevator reached its destination. Did I take advantage of this forced solitude? Let your phantom olfactory sense reach its natural conclusion.
For those still in doubt, let me recall an anecdote with actual witnesses. Years ago, while toiling in the town of Smell Segundo, an oil refinery town with its own foul aroma and a host of nicknames, I went to lunch with the two Gregs, from Team One.
We strolled down Sepulveda Blvd. and stopped at a place called WoodPit, WoodFire, WoodBurgers, that part I don't remember. However I do remember that after a long wait for our messy cheeseburgers we were finally enjoying our meal. While a group of French tourists sitting directly behind us were enjoying their post-meal cigarettes. I don't know how Europeans lay claim to being the center of fine culture with all that disgusting smoking and eating, sometimes simultaneously, but I did know this will not abide.
"Excuse me, we are trying to enjoy our lunch, can you go outside and smoke?"
"voulez-vous coucher avec moi, se soir."
"I said we're eating. Do you mind not smoking?"
"voulez-vous coucher avec moi, se soir."
"Look if you expect me to put up with your smoking then you won't mind putting up with my farting."
They laughed and waved me off with a casual flick of the wrist. Showing my appreciation for French artistry, I conjured up the ghost of Sir Joseph Pujol, best known as Le Petomane, casually lifted a leg and sounded my own cor francais.
Their effete mockery quickly turned to stunned shockery. Instinct kicked in and they quickly fled in retreat.
And those cheeseburgers were delicious.
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