10 February 2007

Why Must I Fart So Much?

Hubert Korneliszoon Poot: Dutch Enlightenment-era writer
and namesake/author of the first fart joke.


I don't know if you've ever farted before. I didn't really keep track while we were growing up. Maybe you did and you just blamed it on your tuba and no one was the wiser. After all, the tuba is the most flatulent of all the brass instruments. Just in case you haven't, don't take it up as a hobby. It's really not worth the alienation and/or social stigma. To wit:

I had two going-away parties to attend last night, one for my friend and (now) former co-worker Francesca (hired away by the Starbucks creative team) and another for my friend and (now) former co-worker Tyler (leaving on a round-the-world voyage)...

Wait, first I simply must digress onto the topic of Naughty Limericks. Francesca is one tough old bird, and though that tough old bird is a songbird who trills like a meadowlark, (Drop that goddamn bird metaphor now before I shoot you with a bb gun. -Ed.) she occasionally peppers her discourse with Naval-grade profanity. So I figured hey, what's a better send-off for a pottymouth like Francie than writing and performing a trio of Naughty Limericks in her honor at the event? So yeah, I did. And for your edification, here they are - with reactions from the present company included parenthetically after each:

There once was a hooker named Francie
Who found her vocation too chancey
She found some employment
Much more to her enjoyment
And safer than dropping her pantsies

(Francesca hoots with joy; one token giggle by the rest of the company; many anxious brows furrowed.)

Francesca has gone to Starbucks
We wish her "so many good lucks"
All we ask, Francie dear
In your heart, keep us near
And come visit us miserable fucks

(Francesca blushes with joy and cackles; much nervous clinking of cutlery on the part of the rest assembled.)

Francesca the horny wordmonger
Needed fresh meat to lessen her hunger
She felt wrongly pent
By the age of consent
"Eighteen? Hell, I'll go ten years younger!"

(Francesca shrieks with glee I LOVE IT!; cold granite silence and frozen, contorted grimaces of abject terror from the rest. Apparently pedophilia, even in Limerick form, doesn't play well in Seattle.)

Yeah, so as you can see, I was a smash hit. And soon after that I continued to ingratiate myself to the present company by furtively playing an oboe cantata with my butt. As you know, I'm a vegetarian. That means when I go out, if I'm not going to a strictly vegetarian restaurant, I have to make do with whatever legume, twig, or compost heap that's on the menu. And usually the selection is pretty much anything you see pictured on the label of the Beano bottle. I don't know what it was about the entree I ordered, but it could've been called The South Wind Special. Blazing sciroccos of acrid stench were emanating from my backside. Since I had the handy "out" of Tyler's party, I clenched my hiney as best I could and said my goodbyes.

Needless to say, I never made it. On the way there, I stopped off at home to pick up Teresa, but by then such a fugue was going on - with grumblings, claps, and staccato horn-bursts (with the occasional bold firmata and scintillating arpeggio) - I couldn't possibly subject another group of air-breathing humans to its terrible majesty. I mean c'mon, my ass was practically respirating. Someone would've called the police. Or the Guinness Book statisticians. So instead I sat at home and did my best to inflate the couch.

It's perplexing. Why do I gotta toot so much? And how do I explain to Tyler that I couldn't make his party because my ass was practically shouting and I was afraid of asphyxiating the guests? I've combed Emily Post's rules of etiquette, and I got zero hits on any combination of the terms "fart", "party", "wind", and "stanky". Any advice you may have short of using a cork would be most welcome.




The General said...

Well, telling me in Blog form is probably as good a method as any!

Sorry you couldn't make it to the party, but at the same time I feel oddly compelled to thank you for not attending.

See you in seven months!

The General said...

Also, it bears mentioning that this is the automatically generated Google ad that appears next to this blog entry:

Ads by Google
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Just in case people are looking for more fart related material.

Thaddeus Gunn said...


My esteemed Mr. Gunn,

So, like, what is the exact resonant frequency of your ass? Can you, for example, sustain a double-pedal B-flat (25.45 Hz)? If so, try this interesting experiment: stare at the blades of a back-lit rotating table fan while off-gassing. If your efforts produce sufficient amplitude and frequency, your skull (and hence you eyes) will vibrate sympathetically, causing the fan blades to appear to be momentarily motionless or rotate slowly forward or backward (this phenomena is the functional principle behind the stroboscopic musical instrument tuner).

Any bystanders will also be observed to actually rotate backwards while gaining a greater appreciation of the table fan.

Good luck.


Thaddeus Gunn said...


There was a young fellow from Sparta,
A really magnificent farter,
On the strength of one bean, he'd fart God Save The Queen
And Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

There once was a lady named Cager,
Who as the result of a wager,
Consented to fart
The entire oboe part
Of Mozart's quartet in F-major.

Thaddeus Gunn said...


Hey champ,

gotta comment me up on that!

I'm personally gutted that the attended crowd at Francesca's soiree didn't appreciate the limericks of joy!
what a bunch of wet willies. Pathetic! Here's a man who's gone to the effort of writing some genius poetry in honour of someone who they (presumably, as they're at the do) respect and value... and they can't show appreciation?
but also... you blew out a mate cause you had the farts? Man! I could understand it if it was underpinned by the mortal terror of follow through, but there's nary a whiff of the suggestion of you having the trots...
may I suggest next time you're in that predicament, you take along a Big box of matches, and light them to kill the smell. anyone asks, you're a pyromaniac on a detox program.. weaning yourself off slowly...

if I may also add my two penneth about farts.. smelly ones are always bad. rarely do they brighten a room.
however, the fresh air type can be the source of endless fun and creativity. I lived with a guy called Steve once. and he's an expert at the stylish fart. he'd slide into the room with a look on his face that said "I so wanna wink, but that would be too obvious at this stage!"
then let off a ripper. then wink
over 6 months, the two of us pushed each other to the limits of human endeavour and I have to say, we laughed bloody hard!
Le Patomane stand aside!


Anonymous said...

Two words: coffee enema.

I'm sure Starbucks would do.