(originally posted 8/19/2014)
Ted had a full plate. He sat in bed with his glass of warm milk watching late night TV and tried to relax. “Keep it all in perspective” he reminded himself. He knew he wasn’t the first man with financial concerns or problems at work. Nevertheless, sleep eluded him as he turned off the TV and sank back into his pillow. On the positive side, Fall was here with its chill in the air and Ted had just recently brought out the comforter. No better sleeping weather than leaving the window open a crack and having to nestle down deep in the covers for warmth. Unfortunately for Ted every time he had almost drifted off he would suddenly think of one of his many pressing concerns and his eyes would snap back open and the knot in his stomach would reappear. It was around midnight when the first fart came.
You see, Ted was lactose intolerant and that glass of milk was starting to kick in. His usual glass of milk before bedtime ritual never bothered him before as he was usually sound asleep before the fireworks began but now as he lay in his bed he realized that the comforter that he so treasured was about to turn into the top of a down-filled Dutch Oven. He tried in vain to start waving the sheet and comforter vigorously in the opposite direction but traveling ten feet a second the fart was on him before he could even get a clean breath of air. Now came the hardest part for Ted. Alone in the night, sitting in that dark room he had no alternative than to admit to himself that he actually liked the smell of his farts. He told himself that with the exception of the rogue fart that smells nothing like a person expects their typical fart to smell, most people secretly enjoyed the smell of their own farts. “I can’t allow myself to feel bad about this” he told himself … he already had enough on his emotional plate without feeling guilty about enjoying a little flatus. With that he lifted his ass a little and let fly another.
While I don’t think anyone will ever confuse the smell of sulfides with that of a hot apple pie just being taken out of the oven there is a certain familiarity to it. I guess some will refer to this as ‘your own brand.’ It can take you back to childhood or have you waxing poetically about a particularly pungent offender. Whatever it was, it was just what Ted needed. He brought his legs up and issued forth a complete glossary of farts, from gusts of wind to the sound of the last Rice Krispie expiring in the bowl. He let rip a Cockney Cheer while singing ‘Knees Up Mother Brown.’ There was a knicker ripper, a toxic steamer and a supersonic. If the average person farted 14 times a day then somewhere in China there were 100 people not farting at all that evening to keep the books even. He passed a snicker blast, a freep, a rumbler, a scooter and a rhino stopper. And still sleep did not come. “Fire in the hole,” he exclaimed to no one and launched into a floorboard lifter followed closely by a soup cooler, a crop duster and a trouser trumpet. The room began to smell like the septic tank in a slaughterhouse in August at noon somewhere in a third world country. Ted was aglow.
At one point, somewhere around 3:00 am the farts began to be more difficult to come by and he was forced to go downstairs and have himself another tall glass of milk. Within minutes he was back to work…unleashing a scutter, a salsa and a Rabbi rattler in short order. He was now working in rarified air…so to speak. After completing a difficult series of sphincter gyrations he was able to land a perfect pocket frog and before he knew it, hands clutching the side of the bed, he released the mythical pyroclastic flow. No one at work would believe him, but as the sun began to creep up in the morning sky he sat on soiled sheets refreshed. Revived! It was as if he had slept like a baby all night. With a final nut knocker, a quick musty turnip and an almost wistful mmmBop he arose to face the new day.
This is a story of hope and the human condition. I know some of you will question why I didn’t include an air biscuit. Or a low rider. What about the bum blower or the piffle you might ask. I just didn’t feel they were right for this particular piece. Don’t think I didn’t grapple with the chuff, the quiffer, the dribbly, the country cough or the eggburter! It’s just as some point I have to think about the final product and make the tough decisions. Maybe at some other time I can revisit the spoofy, the fog horn or the zump. You never know.
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