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(' ') Natural Gas
Lately my diet has been less than the ideal. Lately, I’ve been able to burp the alphabet in English, French and Spanish before needing to refuel the gas that comes out of my mouth. So I went to the old internet to see what information that could be found using the phrase, “Excessive Belching.” The sites I go to talk about many medical reasons for this but the one I found that most fit my symptoms was the one that talked about how my food intake is off and because of that my bacteria level has gone off the loop and now they’re having themselves a big party in my intestines.
So without the antibiotic I change my diet. Things are going well. I have one more day of burping like an incessant foghorn. It goes on for hours and man, the feeling of a continuous bloated stomach filled with air is not something that anyone can enjoy for that kind of time.
Finally I lay down on the couch. Duma, my Rhodesian Ridgeback is sleeping at my feet on the couch curled up having his puppy dreams. The gas is gone. At least I have stopped burping. I start to feel this mass of gas in my intestines making it’s inevitable run downstream.
“THANK GOODNESS, I am finally going to Fart!”
The rumblings move further down. Sounds that if played back in a dark room would make you believe you were on some alien world and creatures not of your knowing have come to eat you.
The gas reaches its port of call . . . “Pfffffffftttttt . . . Woooooosh!” it exits. Nothing but a short moan of gas in the night hardly worthy of listening. A proverbial S.B.D. (silent but deadly) emits from my ass. Length approximately 5 seconds.
Pretty bad.
 I like my own farts - I think we all like our own farts or at the very least show curiosity about how such an unusually potent smell could come out of such an orifice. And we ALL think about farts. We think about them whenever someone farts around us. We think most naturally, “Okay someone farted!” We speak of farts all the time especially adolescent males and matured (or supposedly so) adolescent old men like me! Like when you’re all in a group and someone let’s go we’re prone to say,
“HEY! HEY! Who shit their pants?”
Duma raises his head and in his dog mind I can see him saying, “You damn sure know that wasn’t me!” A perfect prelude to the normal accusations of, “Duma! That’s Gross!” to associate to everyone around that there’s no way such a stench would come from your asshole.
“Light a match man!” Is actually a very bad suggestion. Farts are made up primarily of methane gas which of course is highly flammable. Light a match and shortly after the explosion the group of you will be lined up in front of the mirror counting the number of remaining hairs on your collective heads.
This fart, this eminence that I’ve just emitted has put off the normal enumeration of the fart. It is pretty bad considering it’s time duration. Certainly my diet has prompted this change in the waif of smell that slowly fills, fills completely, thoroughly, absolutely the entire space that we inhabit.
Did I say completely? All encompassing? It was a bad smell, something worse than egg salad and prune juice farts, broccoli and cider farts or beer and bad hot dog farts all rolled together in the guise of the “Anti-Fart” something so deadly and evil that few can behold or tolerate its power. But then who would want to?
Yet, Duma after his chastising puts his head back down and tolerates the immediate odors. This is a powerfully strong thing for a dog who smells thousands of time better than his human counterpart. Just a simple acknowledgement and back to his nap.
But yet something is still brewing, my intestine sending me once more alien messages from its landscape. The pressure I feel is heavy. Weighting my intestines into the base of my back as I lay trying to alleviate the discomfort.
Sometimes you’ll fart and say to yourself, “HEY, That’s not Bad!”
And there are those rare times, exceedingly rare moments in life where someone else will fart and you’ll say, “Hey, that’s not bad!”
Where you fart is an important consideration. In the societal hierarchy that is our country this timeframe and location is very important. I doubt few of us would want to see or hear the Inaugural Address of the President begin with, “My fellow American’s . . .
Bwwwwwwwaaaaaaattttttttt….pfffft…..pffffff…..blat . . .
Let me take this opportunity to say to you . . .
Hey! That’s not bad!"
Women on the other hand have very strange issues regarding farting and burping. It seems the vast majority of the population claims to do neither of these naturally human functions. Men have played there role in this silence of the classes. No man wants to hear their significant other fart. It’s unheard of! Not acceptable!
As such farting has come into the realm of social etiquette. Yet I have to wonder if I went to such a social event and looked at their program would a section on “proper emanating of gas from orifices” would be one of the study topics?
How do you women do it? Is there some awareness group with mandatory attendance? Is it a secret only passed from mothers to daughters? Is there some book that contains the “Secret Codes of Clarity” in regards to being a female and having to fart?
I am sure like me the first time a women accidentally farts in your presence you are like, “What the Fuck!” or you start to laugh quietly and sometimes out loud not in disgust but a laugh of elation,
“Hey! They do Fart!”
“Hey, that’s not Bad!”
Back in my own little world Duma is again asleep and the pre-mentioned odor has dissipated to an acceptable level. My intestine has transferred its cargo to my anal cavity. Interesting words, anal cavity, especially when put together but I digress.
I feel it make its way to the exit. With all the gas I feel at first I’m sure it’s going to be one of those long drawn out farts that you can walk through the entire house as it releases itself in a silent storm of smell. I like those farts cause its hard to know where the fart began and thus incredibly easy to shift blame to someone in the living room. If you plan it right you can make your way around the house as the fart eminates from your ass and when you get back to your starting point you can yell out, “Hey Jerry, that’s disgusting!” By that time five minutes have past and even Jerry won’t remember if he shit himself or not. I am waiting for just such a fart.
It could also be the kind of fart that everyone worries about when they are not feeling well. The kind of fart that neither asks or gives quarter. The fart that gives the ultimate level of disgust not only from its producer but from its audience as well. The rare and deceptive “wet fart.”
 There you are in your Grey pinstripe suit giving your presentation when you feel that little ball of pressure hit your butt. Like the rest of us you believe that all you’re going to do is pass a little gas and with the number of people in the room the fart will go without finger points and allegations. You figure you are set! Make the presentation and get rid of a little noxious odor with no one the wiser.
But it doesn’t happen exactly as you’d planned and like the common saying, “Murphy’s Law” the fart that comes out of you does not do so alone.
It’s a “Wet Fart.”
A wet fart is the bane of human existence. I believe it was the primary reason that we wore so many layers of clothing way back when. Then no matter what happened you were prepared. Little wet fart while chasing the highwayman across the pasture. No worries just clean it up and then toss the nightshirt. Quick jump in the creek and all is again right with the world.
But this is your grey pinstripe and the feeling that something went terribly wrong with your fart is now slowly seeping down the back of your thigh.
So I hope that this fart is not going to embarrass me even though the only audience is my dog.
Poo . . . And that’s it. Poo. Hardly distinguishable as a fart. Like a whisper in the dark that’s barely audible, poo. Like the world’s smallest soap bubble just broke at my ass. Poo!
All this thought, all this worry over this!
Poo.
Not hardly worth the name of Fart.
Duma’s head abruptly rises. As if he’d just noticed a rabbit coming out of the cabinets. He looks at me with a deep sadness and I have to believe canine contempt as if to say,
“Master, Jesus Christ what the hell was that!”
 Without further ado he gets off the couch and travels down to the door lying on the floor. He does this when he wants the cool air that waifs in from the gaps in the doorway. He is lying down his head away from me, his body down and pointed in the other direction showing me his butt. Before he settles down (all of this happening in a few short second) he turns once more to look at me. It’s not a look of love or trust! I haven’t smelled anything yet. It’s been at least 5 seconds and nothing. What is the dog’s problem?
“Oh my God!”
“OH MY GOD!”
“What the hell is that?”
“I NEED AIR!”
As Duma and I sit outside I can see the heat ripples coming out from the inside rolling over the top of the doorsill exiting into the night. I also notice that the stars directly above me have shifted into varying directions away from ground zero. Traffic which is normally heavy on this old county road has ceased to exist. It’s just Duma, the concrete we’re sitting on, the dark night now that the stars hid themselves and me. Oh, and the still awful smell that now is finding it’s way into the outdoors.
For the longest time I wondered why the trees around this house did not bud till much later.
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For too long I've messed with the wiring in my head. Now it shorts out more oft than not. But at my age I just sit and enjoy the sparks. RJM '07
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