My father is the man who farted on every stair. It is quite the feat; I myself have come close, but have never made it from landing to landing without running out of gas. The secret is to break up an enormous fart into a series of smaller farts, so that there are enough small farts for every stair. It takes a truly monstrous fart to make it to the second floor. My dad is a man of truly monstrous farts.
For many men, monstrous farts can serve as an impediment in the dating department. Candlelit dinners and dainty lace table cloths hardly provide a setting conducive to freedom of flatulence, and so countless dates withhold their farts, storing them deep within their bellies where they cannot be heard or smelt. This tends to backfire, for these well-intentioned fellows wind up inflated, buoyant and bobbing against the ceiling, their disgusted dates escaping through the back door. Not my father, though. My father knew all the tricks of the trade--he was practically a fartsmith. One night, while wooing my mother, a dainty, small figured girl with an eye for a good time and a load of baggage trailing behind her, my dad fell upon unfortunate bowel discomfort. They sat on a bench in downtown Holyoke, enjoying the song stylings of some local band, but mostly enjoying each other. "He was sweet," my mother recalls. "He even pooped on the downbeats." It was true, my father claims. Stricken with a gullet full o' gas, my father knew the success of the date hinged on his relief of belly pressure. And so, clever man, he waited for the bass-heavy parts of the song and squeezed out bits of gas, one fart at a time. My mother wasn't fooled, however. "I could feel the vibrations through the bench," she claims. Regardless, she was flattered by his efforts; he had her in the bag.
As a child, I heard that story many times. For much of my youth, I was perplexed, for I thought my dad literally "pooped" on the downbeats, as my mother insists. I pictured him squeezing out a fresh log, steamy and curled on the end, right on the bench. I should have known better, because my mother only uses the word poop. She finds "fart" distasteful, and avoids it at all costs. It causes some confusion, but it sure is adorable to hear my poised little mother say "poop."
My father's flatulence was not always so well managed in the presence of women. Before meeting my mother, my dad was seeing a local girl, and took her out for a hot date. Unfortunately, the dinner they scored did a number on his belly health, and he sat roiling in pain, purple-faced from withheld gas. The date came to a premature end: "I had to bring her home, I was so uncomfortable," he says. He pulled up to her house, and wished her a hasty "good night." "As soon as the passenger door swung shut, I just let loose." I can only imagine the relief! One enormous fart, containing hours worth of steady air repression, it must have rippled off the leather seats, reverberating throughout the car, jingling the china in the next door neighbors' armoire. Considering the intensity of the emission, it can only be assumed that his date, not having yet paced more than a few feet from the car, must have heard the trumpeting blow, or at least felt the ground shiver beneath her feet. I'll have to ask my dad whether there was a second date.
Needless to say, my dad adjusted and perfected his date-farting techniques, and found ways to cope with his flatulence. He certainly found the perfect woman, for though she may roll her eyes, my mother loves every fart that rumbles from my dad's gas chamber. Thank goodness, because otherwise this here fart-fanatic would never have been born.
