Farts

Admit it, farts are funny. Disgusting, rude, juvenile, and nasty, yet funny.

I remember going to the doctors office with acute appendicitis. I was eleven years old and the doctor asked me, "Have you been passing gas?".  Passing gas? Sure, we passed a Shell station on the way to the doctor's office. What the hell was this passing gas thing? We certainly didn't use such refined language in our house. At least once a day I'd hear my mom berating my dad, "Oh Al, do you have to fart like that all the time?" She never asked him, 'Please Al, if you must pass gas, take it to the lavatory'. No, she told him not to fart.

My dad was a virtuoso of farting. Some of his intestinal explosions were legendary. With the right combination of pizza and beer, he could inflate his pajama bottoms like a Macy's, parade balloon. Although I seem to have inherited his abilities, I blame some of my flatulence on Mark and his cooking. Last night we had delicious empañadas, stuffed with beef, eggs, olives, and raisins. A virtual gas factory neatly wrapped in pastry. It was while experimenting with different sounds, fluctuations, and pitches last night, that I discovered Sasha is afraid of farts. The poor girl was curled up on my lap, and sound asleep, when I let loose with a chair shaking fart. She jumped up and ran off under the dining room table. Later while lying in bed, I squeaked off another one, and Sasha, who had been nestled comfortably above my head in the pillows, again jumped up and ran out of the room. Meanwhile, at the foot of the bed, Chandler continued to snooze, totally unfazed by the commotion. So either Sasha is afraid of them, or she's the smarter of the two dogs.

One last thing about farts in our house. It seems that Mark is channeling my mom sometimes. At least once a day he lets me know how disgusting I am, and berates me for farting, which I think is unfair. I always let him blame the dogs for his silent killers.