Few among us will admit to spending a lot of time thinking about the consequences of a really thunderous fart. We are taught, contrary to God’s will, that aggressive farting is not acceptable in any public or intimate private setting. Consequently, refusing to fart inflicts as much harm as farting its own self. Resisting a good fart for “social” reasons is a sure indication of mental/emotional aberration. Anyone who would ostracize you for dramatic flatulence is a malevolent, Hitlerian asshole, utterly lacking in the ability to appreciate the poetic abstraction of normal human function.
What galactic forces, social, religious and sexual, have brought us to this calamitous situation in which our moronic inhibitions cause us to deny our very nature at the moment when nature signals us that appropriate release of tension and pressure is immediately required. Farting, we are taught, is the destroyer of worlds, of romance, of business relationships and the ultimate cassus belli that brought forth the United Nations (no bigger accumulation of farters on earth). This also raises the question whether more harm is done by resisting God’s commandment as expressed through bowel pressure than might ensue were we to succumb and give God the glory.
This is a Presidential election year, a perfect time to write about flatulence. There is so much of it on so pervasive a scale. We continue, however, to blame farting for greenhouse gas and global warming. Cows, so they say, emit so much flatulent methane that the ozone layer is being destroyed. That is all such absurd nonsense. What is destroying the air we breathe and the environment upon which we depend is the sheer volume of my own flatulence. You see, especially at my age, I truly enjoy farting. I do it whenever the opportunity presents. I do it musically. I do it vengefully. I do it sarcastically and for spite. I configure my diet to enable flatulent excess on a globe destroying continuum. I do it out loud and bodaceaously and I do it subtly and secretly. I underscore what I say and think with it. And now I dedicate my writing to it. Cows should never be blamed for what I do. It simply isn’t their fault. Where’s the justice?
No one thinks of the relationship between farting and the First Amendment. It is certainly a form of expression. Farting and just taking a crap on stage are about the only ploys not yet used in this Presidential campaign. Can’t you just picture Trump – EL GRAN PUTO – lifting his eyes heavenward and getting a squeezed look on his face? He would be squeezing one out. Chris Cuomo could discuss it ad nauseam on CNN at breakfast time the next morning. He would call in experts on matters gastroenterological to opine upon its medical and political significance. If George Bush could throw up on the prime minister of Japan, why couldn’t Trump fart on the President of Mexico? What would Trump eat for lunch on a debate date? Chili with beans? Kim Chee? Since Malaria certainly doesn’t cook, what he eats could easily be a gas inciting recipe. I bet the next whore he marries won’t cook either.
Farting has historically been associated with holy vows, particularly those regarding silence. Questions have for centuries been posited regarding the extent to which Priestly vows extend to flatulence. Inasmuch as one may fart silently, but with just as much lethal impact, does it make any difference whether or not a fart is silent and sneaky? On the other hand, vows of silence are usually related to speech, for other silent forms of expression are not forbidden – think gestures for example. Therefore, one must ask whether farting is a form of gesticulation. Gesticular flatulence, if permitted to the Priestly class, would obviously permit the sneaky fart at the very least. Given that postulation, would not the sonority of farting be merely denominational in its implications. What? You don’t follow this logic? Who gives a shit?
That syllogism, taken to its logical progression, would suggest that farting could also be considered devotional music if done by those with melodic capabilities. Symphonic farting could eventually become a feature of recitals and concerts, especially when performed by those capable of doing it harmonically and in syncopated rhythmic patterns. The Art of the Fart, so to speak. Could a really talented farter perform through his ass a gavotte, a minuet, Bach’s B Minor Mass? Every symphonic orchestra in the world has its wind section. If embrasure with one’s lips enables wonderful saxophone music why not squeezing and flexing one’s asshole to achieve rhythm and pitch variations? An adjustment may have to be made differently when it comes to inhaling at breath stops. Australians practice circular breathing while playing the Digeridoo. One could with some effort train his posterior wind system to inhale. I know from experience that this is just a learning process and that with practice one could fart rhythmically for hours.
Farting as an accompaniment to various activities is very well known and for many years at that.
Think, for example, of walking farts. How many of us have done that upon hundreds of occasions? When I was a cadet at The Citadel those of us who were Beetle Baily types, always on punishment for one reason or another, would hold contests. How you do that, you ask. Simple. Even when we would be in different units we arranged to say FARTS, cluing the cadet marching next to you to begin counting steps. Now marching speed is 120 thirty inch steps per minute. How many steps one took until the farting stopped would provide a fart distance equation, which yardage was the measure of victory. There was some danger that some asshole would hear you say FARTS and write you up for talking while on parade, but it was all worth it no matter what the added punishment might be. Word would get around the battalion and the better farters would become heroes to their fellow cadets.
Unfortunately, they did not give out awards or medals for strength and duration of farting, or I might have held some pretty high honors in college, higher than being First Honor grad in Languages. To me artistic farting is a language unto itself, but I could never sell that to the faculty. On the other hand, the school military administration was so anal retentive that no one had the temerity to “write me up” for improper farting. They always used the farting as an excuse for a close inspection and the finding of the extraneous bit of tarnish on a belt buckle or speck of dust besmirching a shoeshine. Can’t you just hear the read out loud to the regiment punishment order – “For walking farting a distance of half the parade ground during the honors parade for General Westmoreland, Cadet Seamus I. Muldoon is hereby ordered to serve four months of restriction to campus and 80 punishment tours. By order of General Mark W. Clark, Commanding.” It would be worth the punishment just to hear that order read aloud to the whole regiment.
I once had a similar order red aloud for which I received wide applause from my fellow cadets. It seems that while attending summer school at Middlebury College one summer, some West Point asshole was upset seeing me exit the women’s dormitory several times a week early in the morning. This is a true story. The West Point asshole actually wrote a letter to General Clark saying that he had witnessed this and that in so doing I was besmirching the fine name of The Citadel, The Military College of South Carolina. In reaction to such a report, General Clark ordered the Commandant of Cadets to make an example of me for leaving the impression at Middlebury that Citadel cadets were allowed to fuck their brains out whenever they were off campus. That 4 month and 80 tours punishment order was read aloud to the entire regiment and I received a standing ovation. Actually they were already standing at attention when the order was read, but why be picky about such a great story. I believe that in the entire history of The Citadel I am the only cadet ever publicly punished for getting laid regularly.
If farting can be timed to steps, why not to lovemaking strokes? Some social adjustments need to be made for women who have been taught very strictly that a young lady does not fart. Only twice in all my many years has a girl I have been dating farted in my presence. You really do not want to hear about those events. They need to be allowed – even coached – to loosen up a bit. An old joke says that a honeymoon is over when the bride farts in bed. By then the groom has usually farted in bed dozens of times. Pulling the covers over her head and farting is widely called a “Dutch oven” even in the most polite societies.
This is an election year. What is inflicted upon us daily in the media is by far more onerous than open farting. Where have we arrived when bullshit is OK but farting is not? Perhaps it would be of material assistance in the political scheme of things were the capitol building be painted brown. Were it not for its incredible ventilation system, what transpires within would long ago have turned the inside of it brown. No matter how tight a political asshole may be, when no one is looking at it there are tectonic, seismically measurable emissions of “bad air”. Moreover, it is impossible to distinguish Democrat flatulence from Repubican flatulence. The merging of those gasses may be manifestations of their hostilities, but in the end it is all bullshit (or at least its gaseous precursor).
That political flatulence is pervasive in the political systems of every country demonstrates its divine imprimatur in human relations. There may, perhaps, be cultural grace notes in the sense that an Italian fart smells different from an Icelandic fart. The French blend such aromas and call it gastronomy. How appropriate!
We must show respect and gratitude for gas producing foods. It aint all just beans, you know. Other exotic preparations provide enriched flatulence beyond imagination. Pickling some vegetables provides wonderful grace notes to the central theme of stinky effluence. The Koreans deserve special gratitude for kimchee that produces farts that can induce miscarriages. But here in the good old USA. We owe our history of grand flatulence to canned beans.
When I was a kid there were no cute little freeze dried packs of various foods, light to carry in your backpack on those camping trips. We carried the goddam cans full of this or that. Think Spam, Vienna sausages, Dinty Moore beef stew and beans. We had strong backs in those days and could hump a ruck weighted down with about 50 pounds of canned food up a mountain as well as any damn goat or mule. At end of day, “dinner” so often consisted of Vienna sausages and Van Camp’s baked beans. Any friend of mine could cause a pup tent to become quickly uninhabitable.
One may exploit the apprehensions of others without even farting. Simply lean to one side and put a strained look on your face. Everyone will think you are about to fart and will be frightened.
Farting can be made like line squalls. Line squalls train (as in follow each other like cars in a railroad train). Farts can and should train. Walking farts are a form of training.
There once was a man named Lamatta,
Who was a magnificent farter.
He’s bang out with his ass
Bach’s B Minor Mass
And end with the Moonlight Sonata
By Seamus Muldoon, Himself
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