This story about my Dad and I is too funny, rich, and good to pass up. It is about passing gas, flatulence, farts. If you find that offensive and vulgar – loosen up.
Dad was never known for his social graces. Sure, at times he’d leave the room to pass gas, but if it was family – look out!
It was a bitter cold windy winter evening in January of ’60. Mom was at work and Dad and I had the house to ourselves. We were watching TV. I don’t know what Dad ate for supper, but it certainly registered on the Richter Scale and it was sewer gas quality on the Hedonic Tone Assessment.
To escape I went to the kitchen and got a bowl of ice cream. Under the optimum conditions ice cream has an adverse effect on my digestive system. In short time it produces gas that I sometimes have to run from. Well this bitter cold windy winter evening was such a night.
After finishing the ice cream I slipped into my pajamas.
Dad started reading the paper and I continued with watching TV.
My intestines were working at a feverish pace. I could feel it. It was like little bombs detonating. It was now only a matter of physics, displacement, and time. My body would no longer be able to hold back the inevitable.
As my intestines gurgled and raged my thoughts turned to the hour or so of unpleasant odors gifted by my dear ole Dad. I surmised he had it coming to him.
I relaxed and slowly released, a controlled burn. I don’t mean to be indelicate, but it burned. Past experience led me to believe this was bad. I had an imaginary vision of it floating. With that vision I calculated the time it would reach Dad. In order for him to receive the full benefit he had to sniff and sniff deeply.
I used the yawning psychological phenomena; If someone yawns another person can’t resist yawning. As much as it pained me I sniffed deep and long. Dad was too absorbed in the paper to notice. I continued. Finally he heard me and sniffed deeply. There was a pause. The paper fell like the walls of Jericho. “My god!” Dad said as if he read the Soviets had landed on Manhattan. “What the hell crawled up in you and died? Get the hell out of the house.”
I laughed so hard another burning stream of gas issued forth.
Dad was outwardly upset and indignant. He grabbed hold of me. He gave me a kick in the seat and pushed me out the front door and locked it. “Don’t come in until you’re done.”
All I had on was pajamas. It was snowing and blowing. I shivered and watched the bitter wind whip snow down the street.
Dad opened a window and waved the paper as if he was clearing the place of smoke.
Every time I pass gas it reminds me of dear old Dad – really. I miss that ole fart.