*(Warning: Ladies are advised to leave the blog immediately. Thank you.)
When you were a kid, did you ever know anyone who could burp the alphabet?
I did, and it was awesome.
It really annoyed me that I could never get beyond “R”.
Nowadays, I could probably get through the whole alphabet, possibly even twice.
It’s just that all 26 letters come out the other end.
**(Ladies, we warned you.)
This is just a fact of mid-life.
When I was a kid, my sister’s then husband loved to tell my hard-of-hearing Dad that he “couldn’t hear himself fart.”
Well, I am here to testify that you CAN hear yourself fart at this age, so long as you have new batteries in your hearing aids.
At first, it was sort of traumatic to actually hear one of those suckers pop out, unannounced.
I had to learn a few coping strategies — diversion, accusation, foot speed — to manage the situation.
But at some point, I had to accept it.
Why, you may ask, did this topic come up today?
To which we have two points:
1) If you are someone who WOULD ASK such a thing, you are definitely a bloke.
2) ***Ladies (whom we already told to leave the blog) would NEVER talk about something as crude as farts because they are FAR TOO BUSY discussing the encyclopedia of things than can go wrong with their lady bits.
Anyway, since some guy in Oklahoma did ask about middle-age fartage…
I was recently walking through an art exhibition when I “got up to the letter R”, if you catch my draft, er, drift.
Thankfully, no one else was in the immediate area of “****Fart Appreciation”.
Though if someone had been, and had wrinkled her nose, because it WOULD have been a woman, I was totally prepared to say:
“I know! Can you believe that’s art? It must be like that guy who cans his crap and signs it.”
I guess I have to accept this as one of those Third Age things.
In the First Age, when I was a child of the boy persuasion, there was NOTHING funnier than a good fart.
ESPECIALLY in an inappropriate place.
(Which may or may not have involved our older sisters’ slumber party, but we are way too polite to mention that.)
In the Second Age, I was a new Dad coming to grips with junior’s Mustard Colored Oatmeal of Death Exploding Diapers. Poop was not as much funny as it was an occupational hazard.
Well, okay, occasionally it was funny.
Like the time I could NOT get rid of the latent whiffage of poop, no matter how many times I used Wet Ones and Lava Soap and Boraxo and Brut.
Then I finally detected a tiny bit of baby poop stuck way under my wedding ring.
*****Oh knock it off, you people pretending to gag in the pantaloon section.
When you are in your mid-50s, you just have to accept that “musicality” is part of the Third Age.
And if you are a guy who is willing to practice a lot, you CAN get to the letter Z.
(Christmas note: Ladies, who are NOT supposed to still be reading, this is the PERFECT gift for your middle age fella. You will BOTH be thrilled with it. Pass the burritos.)
* As above
***** Seriously, you KNOW you did it