In Defense Of The Fart
Fart. I smile every time I read that word: every time I hear it spoken; every time someone lets fly the audible anal manifestation of one. My sense of humor clearly remains on the juvenile side, but if you don’t have a similar reaction, I can’t relate to you. If your sensibilities are such that you are not amused by all the meaning and emotion that are implicit with the broad concept of the fart you are probably best described as a fart sniffer. Or perhaps you're just an old fart. The fart label is reserved primarily for those who do not embrace it. The fart at it’s most basic level is the passing of air from the digestive tract through the sphincter and into the ether. This involves varying degrees of sound and scent, each attribute combining to give each fart it’s own personality. That is all very straight forward. The depth comes into play when we add social setting to the equation of the fart. It can elicit emotions and fears--from relief and elation to guttural horror--and embodies the purest form of universal humor. Examine your own relationship with the fart. Everyone has moments of triumph and tragedy centered around a fart or series of farts. Some farts of triumph and victory can turn to the depths of embarrassment and personal pain that may follow you for years to come.
The formative school years are great place to start. Most of you can look back and come up with at least one hilarious story that centered around a fart. Timing, volume, setting, smell, the people present all play a role in the alchemy of the ass. This stew of factors can make the fart the antagonist or protagonist in some of our defining gaseous moments.
When things go wrong there is very rarely middle ground. Elation is quickly replaced by abject horror. Case in point: eighth grade. The last year of childhood before being thrust into the social grinder of high school. You are a pit of hormones and awkwardness. Everyone is horny and frustrated, with the exception of that one asshole who is actually getting some. If you have a sense of humor this is what you turn to to elevate yourself amongst the pathetic throngs of humanity you are surrounded by five days a week. My best friend sat behind me in science class. He had solid timing and was quick to say and do what the moment required to get the response desired. On this day things went wrong. Wrong doesn’t do justice to how wrong things went. Our strict overbearing science teacher had left the room for reasons unknown, and the room was dead quiet. People reading their texts, drawing in notebooks, some sleeping, all silent: the moment is now! From behind me I hear the opening note of a song from the ass. From the peak of ecstasy to the bowels of terror, the kind of terror that could haunt you for the rest of your days. The crisp opening quickly turned into the sound of a fear stricken goat herder being water boarded in some clandestine CIA black site. The gurgling sound followed by a fizzle. As I turned I could see the color drain from his face and the panic set in. No one else seemed to pick up on what had just occurred. The grim horror on his face was quickly accompanied by profuse sweat. Fifteen minutes left I thought, no way out for him now. He’s gotta ride this thing to the bell and let the chips fall where they may. Gray sweatpants combined with an ample supply of asswater. Fortune shined upon my friend and the swamp water was of a low sulfur variety. Safe for now. Now to stew in this uncomfortable mess. At the bell the class departs and we remain. He covers his ass with his notebook and heads for the phone in the office. A quick call home and resupply is on it’s way. Mom makes the drop. A quick change is made and a pair of underwear and a beloved pair of gray sweats are off to the landfill to spend eternity covered in shart. A black swan event such as this cannot be accurately predicted, unless one is in the grips of an abdominal revolt and every expulsion is a menagerie of the three states of matter. We all know the shart is out there: somewhere there is an unanticipated disaster waiting. Much like our own impending demise, the spectre of a semi-viscous air powered pants disaster looms. Some will stare the monster in the face able bodied and in their prime. Others will face it as an invalid with a blurry mind and quivering sphincter.Make no mistake, everyone is subject to this law of nature This story perfectly illustrates the razor thin line separating a career defining comedic moment, and a social disaster of epic proportions from which the next four years are turned from a promised land of chicks and parties, to living as a confirmed pants-shitter amongst the ruthless wolves that take residence in most high schools.
A typical day at high school involves a study hall at some point during the day. Mine happened to be after lunch in the library. It was a mixed group at my table one fateful afternoon. The group included a good friend and three girls; I do not recall what was said or what their names were. The following events are all that I can recall with absolute clarity from this time in my life. Midway through the hour I see my friend showing signs of exertion and then the classic side lean and cheek lift. BBRRRAPPPP! A quick blast not unlike the sound of a 1970’s dirt bike with a bad exhaust. The volume was shocking. It projected off of the oak chair he was sitting on and reverberated from wall to wall like a racket ball, bouncing back with diminished force. All eyes are now upon us. We make eye contact. His face is beet red as he sits in the mild convulsions of barely restrained laughter. Then, a high pitch squeak followed by a sharp prolonged staccato reminiscent of a german mg42 peppering Omaha beach from a cliffside fortification. All attempt at restraint is gone and so begins the most painful laughing fit I have endured. In seconds we are accosted by a screaming librarian who clearly does not see the humor in what had just occurred. We are ordered to the principals office. We stumble out of the library still in the grips of uncontrolled laughter, the kind of laughter that is accompanied by crying and the sense you may pass out if you can’t regain your composure. We make our way to the principals office without any signs of relief from our rapture. I vaguely remember being yelled at all the while trying to explain myself to no effect. I couldn’t seem to get enough air to get out anything more than a near yelling “He farted”. I must have repeated this three or four times before getting out “so loud”. I could see the principal getting progressively more angry. Nothing could stop this fit. At that moment, if he had leveled a gun at my head and threatened my life if I persisted, I would have given myself a 50/50 chance of survival. Finally frustration overtook anger as he bellowed at rock show decibel levels “Just get the hell out of here!” We spilled out into the hallway at a near crawl as the physical toll of this laughing fit had left us temporarily crippled. The story was retold ad nauseum for days. Reigniting the laughter every time it was recounted. To this day the library fart incident gets brought up a few times a year. A defining moment in a young man’s life.
My own brush with the change up (the fart/unwelcomed poo combo aka “shart”) came my sophomore year of college. Both years of living in the petri dish that is most college dorms resulted in horrible illness. It was during my second annual near death illness that it happened. I had been in a delirium for the better part of two days. I had a high fever and the time frame became blurry. I was in and out of a semi-lucid state. At some point during night two I had horrible rumblings in my stomach. If common sense and good judgement had the upper hand I may have made a wiser and more cautious choice. Not tonight. As I lay there sweating profusely waiting for the angel of death, I released. Not even a pop. Just the rocket powered viscous effluvium of a body on the verge of collapse: the destruction was total. Even in my barely conscious state I knew this was a problem. What happened next I can only recall in mental snapshots. I rolled up my bedding, top sheet, mattress pad, and egg carton foam topper that nearly every shitty college dorm bed gets in order to make it somewhat comfortable. I hoisted it over my shoulder and walked out into the hallway, completely naked. In a normal state of mind I probably wouldn’t have done this, but I was operating on the most basic of my faculties. I’m sure the internal conversation was something like “poop bad. get rid of bad poop,” so out the door I went. Stark naked with a poo soiled bedroll. Straight to the garbage shute and then to the shower. This is where things get confusing. I know at some point I passed two people in the hallway. I don’t know if it was coming or going but I hope it was on the way to the shute. I just like the visual of me naked with a bedroll over the shoulder, like I’m going somewhere with purpose and not just stumbling down the hall wet and naked like a common drunkard. Either way I’m sure they remember and although it’s fragmented and disjointed I do as well.
The most famous piece written on the fart is no doubt Benjamin Franklin’s essay “Fart Proudly”. A man who is one of the pillars upon which this great country was founded saw the fart as a topic worthy of his time and writing efforts. It is a worthwhile read and although I agree with most of his assertions and even enjoy his two hundred plus year old fart puns, he loses me with one suggestion. He suggests that we should seek a way to alter our gas in the form of a drug that could be added to food “with the effect of rendering flatulence "not only inoffensive, but agreeable as Perfumes". To attempt to alter the fart is to undermine the very nature of the fart. Taking away it’s natural essence is to take away the mystery that lies behind every release of gas. Simply because you fart in honey jasmine doesn’t mean anyone wants to inhale the air that exited your ass moments ago. All you’ve done is killed the magic. You can see the magicians hands. Consider this the next time you go for the stealth airplane fart or try the fake cough cover fart. Embrace the unknown, you never know when that great fart of a lifetime will happen. Let it go knowing that you are truly in the moment. You don’t fart in a crowded room thinking about your taxes. It is the only thing in the world. This may be the only time some people are ever one hundred percent in the present. It is a moment of zen for even the most unenlightened.
