Day 21:365 Grateful Challenge and April 7th A to Z Challenge
~ Warning: please do not have any liquid or food in your mouth while reading this. I cannot be held responsible for one more ruined keyboard due to drink/food spitting. You know who you are. ~
Today I am grateful for flatulence. That’s right, flatulence. There is a bit of irony to this bold gratitude statement of mine especially given the week I have just had. Prior to starting the A to Z Challenge, I had jokingly said to my hubby that I was going to write about ‘f is for flatulence’. Sauerkraut smiled and said, “oh, that’ll be a good one” but neither of us really thought I would. Until this week, that is. On Monday, a horrible flu decided to lambaste me, probably in retaliation for my joking about flatulence only one week prior. So, to be on the safe side, I decided to write about how grateful I am for flatulence just in case the flu fairy decided to hit me with an apocolyptic version of another flu for not acknowledging it (clear as mud, right?). I mean, I still have 20 more letters to write about in the A to Z Challenge; I cannot afford to be sidelined by noxious gases any longer.
We all know what flatulence is; it is wind, it is farting, it is an assflapper, a back draft, it is colon bowlin’, a fanny beep, a panty burp, a raspberry, a ripper, a squeaker, a taint tickle, a whopper or whatever word you may use to call it. We also all understand that flatulence is a natural occurrence in the body and that it is quite often a sign of good health. So why, then, does flatulence get such an embarassingly bad
ripper rap? After all, it is one of the things that we all have in common; farting is a universal experience which knows no borders. Whether you are rich/poor, big/small, happy/sad, Donald Trump/Ted Cruz, Canuckleheads/Gretzkynappers (yes, we are still bitter about that), we are all bound together by the fact that each and every one of us has tooted our own horn on at least one occasion. By the way, if that is all you have ever let rip, I would suggest a trip to your doctor because something is indeed wrong with you; you are just one big bubbling cesspool of gases away from totally combusting. Ppppffffffftttttt!
So why the hell am I writing about it then if we all know we that we putt-putt and that rump rippers are good for us? Well, I think it is because everyone loves a good fart story, everyone has had a embarassing fart story, and, if you say that you do not, well, then, I would have to say that you are indeed lying. Look, if I can write about log clogging a toilet, it means that I am willing to put myself out there to make you feel at ease with your embarassment(s) as well as letting you know that you are not alone. Farting is as natural as breathing. It is better out than in. It is the yin to your yang. It is the wind beneath your underwear. Well, you get my
Sauerkraut (now there’s a recipe for disaster) and I were just dating. You know that magical time in a relationship? You are trying to get to know one another and want only your best qualities showing. The last thing you want to do is fart in front of this potential life partner. We had be driving for a long time and I could feel the toxic gases brewing inside of me. Not wanting to release the gases to the masses, I decided to hold on for dear life and wait until we came to our next stop. I was hoping that I could get out and let polly out of jail by walking it off. We live in the country so next stops can sometimes be few and far between. While I cannot remember the exact reason we stopped, Sauerkraut got out of the car to check on something (or to pee OR maybe he needed to let paul out of jail – I don’t know) but I thought that he would be gone for a bit. I let go one of those silent deadly killers that damn near split the seam of my jeans. What a friggin mistake! I would have been better to suffer in silence for the next kazillion hours than unleash that beast of a breath cutter.
Panic set in. What the hell do I do now? I rolled down the window and started flailing about, hands and arms flapping like a pair of bird wings trying to take flight. Get out you stench of death! Get out! Get out before Sir Sauerkraut comes back!
But noooooooooooo. Sauerkraut comes back before I can even warn the poor fella. He jumps in the car all happy like and then proceeds to gag. And I mean GAG. The green cloud of toxic fumes were just too much for the ole boy to handle. He was, at least, of enough sound mind to start the car, roll down the windows, put the car in drive, and then put the pedal to the metal. The putrid smell was not long getting out of the car then, especially when you are driving like a bat out of hell or like something out Fast and Furious.
No matter how many times you apologize and say how sorry you are for nearly making your date of a mere three months almost pass out, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can make up for that. There was no dog in the car that I could blame it on nor was there any other passenger to point the finger at (which is probably a good thing because I could easily have been charged with assault for that bomb). I had to take full ownership of it. Sauerkraut, being the true gentleman that he is (keep in mind that he is someone who was brought up believing that ladies did not fart), kept telling me “not to worry about it” and to “just forget about it”, but, hey, mortification at the level takes a good nineteen years just to be able to write and laugh about it.
I am sure that you can imagine my relief at 1) getting that smell out of the car, and 2) getting that insane amout of methane gas out of my arse, and 3) that Sauerkraut stuck around after that even though my hot wind destroyed his belief that proper ladies do not expel hissers. Here we are almost twenty years later and this will be the first time that either of us has mentioned the fart that almost changed my destiny (at least I hope we will after this post arrives in his inbox). You just gotta have a lot of respect for a guy that sticks it out with a beast like me, choosing to overlook my human hydrogen bomb, and who I know will still say “don’t worry about it” after all these years. Oh, how I do love this man of mine.
Now it is your turn to let loose an embarassing fizzler story. Please don’t make me stand in front of the rest of the class alone.
Butt sneeze: 1