A Farter's Manifesto (reprinted)
by Antonios Maltezos
Some people are deeply offended by farts. I find them funny, side-splittingly hilarious, especially when they happen by accident—to someone else, that is. By accidental farting, I mean, of course, bending over to pick something up, when your mind is preoccupied, your body loose. You could be overly tired. Maybe, you’ve done a lot of lifting already, built up the pressure, and all you can think about is how tired your body feels. And then, pffft! You’ve let one go. I love being within earshot when that happens. I’m the type of bystander that just won’t ease up on the finger-pointing. “You farted,” I’ll scream out from a safe distance.
But not all farts are accidental. Right, boys? Us men are notorious for picking the place and time. We’re looking for a reaction even before we start aiming, smile, when we get it. The women folk will frown, moan about how horrible life is living with a farter. We expect it, and although it hurts our ears, we’ll still always go through with it. It’s what we do.
I propose we start a campaign to bring farting out in the open, turn it into something of universal appeal, something that will bring us together as one. Even the foreign fellow who railed against me for letting go of what I thought would be a silent one—even he farts. He told me about a man from his village who was exiled for forty years because he farted within earshot of the other villagers. I wanted to tell him that he was over-reacting, but was afraid our cultural differences would bring out the knives. “I’m sorry,” I said, “it was an accident.” Not true.
pfssst!
(reprinted from my deceased blog. It was either this, or write something about Sanjaya.)
Some people are deeply offended by farts. I find them funny, side-splittingly hilarious, especially when they happen by accident—to someone else, that is. By accidental farting, I mean, of course, bending over to pick something up, when your mind is preoccupied, your body loose. You could be overly tired. Maybe, you’ve done a lot of lifting already, built up the pressure, and all you can think about is how tired your body feels. And then, pffft! You’ve let one go. I love being within earshot when that happens. I’m the type of bystander that just won’t ease up on the finger-pointing. “You farted,” I’ll scream out from a safe distance.
But not all farts are accidental. Right, boys? Us men are notorious for picking the place and time. We’re looking for a reaction even before we start aiming, smile, when we get it. The women folk will frown, moan about how horrible life is living with a farter. We expect it, and although it hurts our ears, we’ll still always go through with it. It’s what we do.
I propose we start a campaign to bring farting out in the open, turn it into something of universal appeal, something that will bring us together as one. Even the foreign fellow who railed against me for letting go of what I thought would be a silent one—even he farts. He told me about a man from his village who was exiled for forty years because he farted within earshot of the other villagers. I wanted to tell him that he was over-reacting, but was afraid our cultural differences would bring out the knives. “I’m sorry,” I said, “it was an accident.” Not true.
pfssst!
(reprinted from my deceased blog. It was either this, or write something about Sanjaya.)
posted by Antonios Maltezos | 7:33 am
3 Comments:
Awww c'mon, Tony tell us how you really feel about Sanjaya. :)
I wondered who'd be the first to break the silence. Who or what is Sanjaya? You're talking to a grandma here, so keep it simple.
In my home, I am the Queen of Farts. A far cry from my grandmother, who would rather die than fart in front of her husband.
They slept in twin beds. One night, she had the most horrendous urge to fart, but held tight.
Grampy let a rip-snorter go. Nanny figured now was as good a time as ever, and let an SBD go.
It was a real stinker. Grampy thought it was his.
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