Flatulence, Testosterone and Belching

(it's all kinda related, you know)

This post is immature, sophomoric, silly and juvenile. Men can be that way sometimes too. For those of you with weak stomachs or those who don't like gross things, like snips and snails and puppy dog tails, skip this one and come back another day. For those of you who like a little cussin', gak machines and swamps, musty gyms and smelly things that may be slightly on the gross (and therefore manly) side, stick around and read further. You might like it.

It's time to write about guy stuff but since I don't know much about guns and huntin' (the last gun I shot was a cap gun in 1962) I can't go there but I do know something about the list shown above. It's something all guys know about innately. It's something all guys do but are ashamed to admit. Well, we're not really ashamed to admit but we might be a little embarrassed to admit it. OK, we're not really embarrassed to admit it at all. Yeah, you're right, we're not embarrassed about it at all and we might even a little proud of ourselves. You be the judge. You already are.

A friend recently mentioned his daughter called him when her son, at 3 months old, started playing with his tallywacker at bath time. (Please tell me you know what a tallywacker is. Use your imagination if you don't. I'm embarrassed for you in advance if you have to Google it.)

He said to his daughter, "Tell my grandson welcome to manhood! It's a little early but there's nothing to worry about. All guys are interested in that part of their body no matter what their age. It's part of being a guy, It starts early and it's a life-long love affair. It's totally normal and nothing to be concerned about and please for the love of God don't slap his hand away when it happens. That will cause a lifetime of issues and major psych bills."

She seemed somewhat calmed down by his reassuring fatherly advice. Manliness rearing it's head at the very earliest stages of life. So to speak.

So the blog begins with the youngest males and now moves on to the oldest. Right to good old Dad (and of course his constant sidekick Mother) because what blog of mine is fully formed without that pair? In fact they provide the whack-a-mole of blog stories because as soon as I knock one out ten more pop up from nowhere. This one is a Christmas miracle in the middle of June. How can one guy get so lucky to have such colorful parents?

A few years ago, my mother told me (being totally serious) that she never allowed my father to pass gas inside the house. I wasn't even sure why the subject came up but I looked at her incredulously. What a ridiculous thing to say.

"I just don't allow that kind of thing in my house," she insisted. "Absolutely not. It's bad manners and I don't allow it."

My father just sat there quietly not saying one word. I'm wondering if he had the urge if he would have to get up and walk outside? What would he do if it was raining? What about snow? Hurricanes? Maybe he had trained himself to never have the urge? That would be weird but crazy thoughts were swirling around my mind like...well....you know.

Trying to defend his masculine honor (why, I'm not sure), I said, "Mother, that's not anything you can control in someone else. You cannot demand someone not fart in your house and especially your husband."

Why didn't I just drop the subject? I hated to tell her how many times I had already broken her rule. Not to mention my gassy brother (who blamed every single one of his on me for more years than I could count).

She went on undeterred, as usual, "Sure you can! And I have and I will continue to. It's crude. He's never done it one time in 50 years of marriage! Ever. And he never will. And I don't like that word. Fart. It's awful!"

Since she frequently peppers her conversations with words like "shit, fuck, damn and hell" it seems odd that she would object to me using the word "fart". Maybe the problem is that it's 1 letter off from her least favorite word in the English language, F-A-T. Mother never liked (fat) people. Still doesn't. That's caused a few problems between us because I'm not the thinnest person around. That God has the wackiest sense of humor when he's assigning children to parents.

I'm not sure what she'd think of (fat) people who (fart). I fit in that category too. Probably put them in a gas chamber. That was too easy but I had to go for it anyway.

The conversation was getting more and more ridiculous with each passing minute. I look over at Dad who quickly pulled his News and Observer high to cover his face hoping no one was paying attention to him all while pretending he wasn't hearing any of the conversation but of course he hadn't missed a word.

Suddenly he excused himself and left the room so I took my cue from him, excused myself and left as well. Mother was left alone in the den and I wished I'd had beans for lunch so I could pass a SBD as an exclamation point to mark the end of our silly conversation but I didn't. I'm not like HBO on Demand in that department.

This is what happens in all the nicest homes in Wilson. Hadn't you always wanted to know?

When I was a rambunctious teenager and I accidentaly let a little burp sneak out after a meal at my grandmother's table, she would slowly put down her napkin and give me the LuLu Death Stare (acid spit in my face would have been less painful) until I owned it and apologized profusely. That goes for any other unnecessary bodily sounds within her earshot. And she had great hearing so the radius was rather large - usually about the size of her house and yard.

All of this guy stuff is innate and it seems to be inborn for the most part. Manners training can smooth out the rough edges and are a necessary part of making the savage beast acceptable to the fairer sex (or another savage beast if that's your thing-hey I'm liberal on these issues). I'm not sure what I can add to my grandchildren's manners education as they grow up. I'm great at blowing the paper wrapping off of straws way across the table during dinner at restaurants. I'm pretty good at stealing desserts from their plates and cutting up with the wait staff to make them laugh. I'm OK with jokes and making funny faces. I'm good for a funny burp in the car after dinner. But I'm not much good with the serious manners stuff.

Since it's coming soon, Susan is practicing her LuLu death stare so she's ready when it's her turn at the grandmotherly manners bat. I'm not going to be any good at that kind of thing. I just can't hold a serious poker face for that long. Being a very good lawyer, Susan can so she'll have to take care of that job by herself. I'm the goofball grandparent and she's the adult one which is no surprise to anyone who knows us. That's in the genes too.