What is so funny?

I wrote the following column many years ago when my boys were young and easily amused.  Well, they still have this twisted sense of humor that can only make a parent proud.  Still, I never quite got what was so funny about a good fart.   When my oldest son got married a few weeks ago, I became instant granny to a sweet little four year old girl.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't anticipate how great it might be to have someone who was around on my side.  Someone equally appalled by the butt antics of the male gender. 
 
This was a short-lived fantasy, apparently.  He called out to her to come here because he had something for her.  Of course, being a child, I'm guessing she thought he might have some candy, a toy, or some other great surprise.  Instead, he let one rip, which made her giggle.  She paid it forward and showed her grandma the new trick she'd learned by giving her the gift of gaseous emissions. 

Oy. 

***

Passed gas, broke wind, tooted, pooted, farted.  They can call it whatever they like, and pull their own finger, because I am never going to find it amusing.     

When I was a kid, “fart” was very improper terminology.  It wasn’t ladylike.  Little girls weren’t supposed to say it.  Instead, the appropriate phrase was “let a stinker.”  Even then, it was only used in reference to someone else having committed the crime.  Young ladies weren’t supposed to do it, let alone draw attention to it.   Though, my youngest sister missed that memo early on, and I actually recall my mom telling her that young ladies weren't supposed to let one rip and be proud of it.  No, nice little girls were supposed to go hide in a closet to do things like that. 

My, how the times have changed.  Or, should I say how my environment has changed since I now dwell with three males who treat passing gas like an Olympic event.  If one of them isn’t windy, the other two likely are.  I wish I had a dollar for every fight I have broken up, which has erupted from one child using the other’s pillow as some sort of rear end filter while letting one rip.  The race was on to see if you really could give someone pink eye from farting on someone's bed linens after they saw it in a movie.   The temptation is great to start lacing their meals with Beano.   

Honestly, I don’t think I used the f-word (fart, not the other f-word) until after I was a mother.  I never even heard my grandma use the term until she had two great-grandsons.  As luck would have it, my husband and I would have two boys, both who find nothing funnier than flatulence.  What seems to make it even more enjoyable is sharing it with someone else.  Oh, lucky me to be the recipient.     

I have no clue what is so comical about it.  I have yet to grasp the humor.  Perhaps, it is something I am not meant to understand because I am not of the male persuasion.  I have witnessed the three of them laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes.  “What is so funny?”  I will innocently inquire.  If one of them is barely able to respond with, “silent, BUT deadly,” I know it is my cue to leave the room before I'd be encompassed by a cloud of noxious fumes.   

One evening while we were out for dinner, I found myself saying to my family, “I don’t know what I did in a past life, but it must have been really bad considering what I have to put up with in this one.”  

I was enjoying a decent meal.  No one was arguing or drawing attention in our direction.  Then it happened.  A roll of thunder erupted from our sons’ side of the booth, resonating against the vinyl seat.  Both children started laughing.  My husband stifled a chuckle, and nearly giggled aloud when he asked our son, “What do you say?” 

“Mom!  Why did you do that?  Oh man, Mom,” my smart aleck son responded while waving his hand in front of his face.   

Okay, that wasn’t the answer my husband was going for.  He was, of course, requesting that our son say a simple “excuse me,” but blaming it on Mom seemed to be just as acceptable.  I was simply not amused at all, but all three were about to split a seam laughing at their ingenuity.  Not only was the public emission funny, but also blaming it on the only female made it all the richer.   

While at home, they don’t place blame.  Heavens no.  They take full credit for the ability to clear a room and induce dry heaves.  The dogs are never blamed.  That would be a shame for not giving credit where credit is due.   

Recently, we rented and watched the movie "Dreamcatcher."  I had read the book by Stephen King quite some time ago, but I am always interested to see how well they adapt his story to the big screen.  In attempts to not spoil the storyline, I must point out that there are scenes involving expulsions of bodily gases.  It didn’t faze me to read that these aliens (referred to as weasels later in the story) inhabiting the victim’s body caused atrocious flatulence and belching, but it was a little more than I wanted to see on the television screen.  Not so with my husband, though.  “I think I have a weasel problem,” he said before burping loudly.  He laughed, he laughed, and he laughed some more.  For weeks to come, everyone but me bragged about weasel issues. 

The first time my husband committed a social faux pas in front of me, he actually said, “excuse me.”  That was then, but this is now.  I have grown accustomed to sleeping with my hands wrapped tightly around the blankets, just below my chin, to ensure no covers are pulled over my head while the “weasel” population continues to grow. 

 

 

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