The Fart.
May 8th, 2006 by Kevin
I rarely fart.
I’m not being all, Oh, tee-hee, I am such a lady, my delicate little heinie is as quiet as Condoleeza Rice’s phone sex line, either. I just don’t do it.
With the way I talk about constipation you would think my innards would be a raging mass of gas production, wouldn’t you? Perhaps it is all going on while I sleep (and if so - O forgive me, lovers past and future), but as far as I’m aware, I don’t often fart.
It worries me sometimes. I am firmly convinced that the reason my mother had a brain aneurysm is that she never, ever farts. All that built-up gas has to go somewhere, and in her case, it nearly ruptured a large blood vessel in her brain. Had it not been discovered in the nick of time, things could have gotten extremely nasty.
I once read on Dooce that her husband searched Google and discovered that the average person farts fourteen times per day. (Obviously this is a very important issue to many.)
Bullhonkery, I thought. I fart maybe once, twice a month, tops; unless heavy-duty Mexican food is involved.
Therefore I Googled it myself and stumbled upon a most interesting page.
Who knew gas was called burbulence? That sounds like a Biblical term. Thou shalt not be burbulent, and it will be well with thee, and thou may livest long upon the earth.
Anyway, not only does the average person fart 13.6 times per day, but the average person releases about one liter of gas per day.
Thats a lot of gas.
“Hey, Mom.”
“What?”
“The average person farts 13.6 times per day.”
“No!”
“Yes indeed.”
“I’m not average.”
“I know! I’m not either.”
“Do you think its when we sleep?”
“God, I don’t know.”
“All of my brothers were average. Disgusting.”
“Ha.”
“They used to light them. Have you ever seen that?”
“I’m afraid I have.”
While I found all of this very interesting, what I find even more fascinating is the fact that someone has obviously done a study - or perhaps several studies - in regards to fart output.
How was this done??
This was discussed at great length in my house. My mother believes that research subjects were enclosed in a room and that farts were trapped in some sort of medical Tupperware containers. I don’t believe that this would have been scientifically accurate.
What I think happened is that a couple of doctors called some unfortunate first-year medical students into the lab, sat them down, and delivered what was certainly uncomfortable news.
“Jones, Reynolds, Smith, we’ve called you here today because you’ve been chosen to participate in a very important medical study regarding the gastrointestinal system.”
“Yes?”
“We’ll only need you for a couple of days.”
“OK.”
“What we’ll have to do is stick these hoses up your bums…”
“WHAT?”
“…In order to measure your flatulence output.”
…
“Think of the good it will do for mankind.”
“Such as…”
“Well, we’ll know how much gas the average man produces.”
“Doctor, I have a question.”
“Yes, Jones.”
“What I have to poop?”
“Damn. Philip! We seem to have hit a snag…”
I mean, really.
Yesterday I was in line at the pharmacy, waiting for seven prescriptions and feeling the hate radiating from the eyeballs of the lovely - truly stunning - pharmacy girl with the mesmerizing accent, whom I think is from Africa.
They don’t much like you when youre on a lot of medication, those pharmacy girls. It’s not as if their job is to help sick people or anything.
“Fuck this bitch and her brain disease! It’s time for my smoke break, damn it!”
I joke, but if I had to deal with ninety cranky geriatrics complaining about Medicare every day, I’d probably have a Clorox cocktail.
I am probably not the worlds greatest pharmacy customer either, because I request the audience of the lone busy, overtaxed, licensed pharmacist with every new prescription, simply so that I can ask the all-important question: CAN I DRINK ON THIS MEDICATION?
Me: Raging alcoholic
The answer is always no, yet I do it anyway. If I’m going to have a brain disease, I’m going to go down with a drink in my hand, goddamnit. Plus, I haven’t died or thrown up my liver yet. Therefore I think that the no-drinking clause is simply another example of doctors and their fascist pig-ism. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t have too much caffeine, don’t eat saturated fats, exercise, blah blah blah.
What fun is that, I ask you? Healthy people have more wrinkles and always look extremely stressed out. The next time you’re driving past a poor miserable jogger, take a good look at his or her face. Tragic, really.
Sorry about the little tangent there.
Anyway, the pharmacy.
I was waiting in a line of five people, two before me and two after me, and suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, a silent fart of the most unholy magnitude escaped me.
Most people have heard the term silent but deadly. No truer description could have been applied to this particular fart. Dear God, it was foul. I would much rather have emitted a loud fart than a smelly fart. A loud fart can be funny, but a smelly fart is simply disgusting.
I was absolutely mortified. I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to flee, part of me wanted to fall to my knees and beg forgiveness, and part of me could not figure out what the fuck I could possibly have eaten to produce such a horrid, unbelievable emission.
Then, a piece of pecan pie flashed briefly before my eyes. It was the goddamn pecan pie. I had gone to coffee with my grandmother the night before and indulged in a piece of pecan pie, and it had to have been that goddamned pecan pie.
Nuts do terrible things to a person.
Curse you, you luscious, succulent, pecan pie. Curse you and damn you into the fiery pits of hell for embarrassing me to death in the pharmacy line at the Jewel Osco.
I tentatively looked around. The man in front of me had the fart face on, that face that acknowledges the fart while simultaneously denying all responsibility for it and showing extreme displeasure regarding its existence.
I looked behind me and the cute little eighteen-year-old girl there looked as if she had just been force-fed a dead squirrel.
Oh, God.
I wanted the floor of the Jewel Osco to open up and swallow me whole, for the world itself to end in one quick, painless blast while my unforgivable pecan pie fart still lingered horribly in the stuffy air.
If that happened to me 13.6 times per day I would surely die of shame.
As it happened I did not die, nor did the floor open up and swallow me. I simply stood there - no doubt a terribly guilty shade of mauve, grabbed my sack of prescriptions, and scuttled off like a cockroach, not daring to look back at the people I had so offended by my evil stench.
I will not go back to Jewel for a month, I swear to God. Such is my penance.
13.6 times per day. Who could live with themselves?
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