The chap I'm about to introduce to you was probably writing in the womb. I would happily trade my writing skills for his, but fear that along with it would come his devilishly dark, wicked way of seeing the world. But when he's not devilishly dark he's witty and hilarious and also a member of the "WTF? Club of Parenthood". Sean didn't have a photo to give me which makes me think he might also be a spy. A spy with a sense of humour - now there's a first. He's a parent of two and master of none - at least that's what he says...
I am reading my daughter a bed time story about forest faeries when this naked arse backs into her room and let’s rip before zooming off again. And it is not a pip squeak either. It’s a back-arching, leg-lifting rotter of a fart, all poise, elegance, and dare I say it, grace.
My son, I am not ashamed to admit, is no ordinary farter. He’s been trained. He knows all about things like angles, stance and delivery (and of course, that holy grail of showmen, timing). In short, he is a professional, and while it is true he possess an innate ability (inherited, paternal grandfathers side), I won’t sell him short with flippancy. What you experience when you hear Luc fart is hours of spontaneous practice. Just the other day we bought him a guitar and already it is gathering dust. Should have looked at the wind instruments. But even then, I doubt he would have played a bugle for long. He favours acoustic over electric and know he would have shunned any form of musical technology that strays from the raw power of his own bum cheeks.
Agreed, the appreciation of his talents is limited to a man’s world (like the drunken, back-slapping brotherhood of males around a late night camp fire), but this is not a bad thing. Is there not a certain mystique that bonds the farter with his listeners? A secret handshake, a sheepish look, a “God, my eyes are watering!” cry for help that separates the common house-farter from the true professional?
This is not a clarion call for farting to become mainstream, for farting is subversive by nature and always will be. Far better it remains an underground movement, a leftfield force ready to be unleashed in classrooms, trains, and for the truly daring, weddings.
Poems have been written about love, love lost and mornings which have broken. Alas, there is no ode to the true pleasure of working man: that first fart of the day.
Those in the know will understand . . . that morning stretch as you sleepily make your way to the bathroom . . . the first shift in your abdomen, (usually while making a pee) that alerts you to the fact that something special is about to happen . . . a change in stance and some fancy footwork, maybe? Perhaps a knee is slightly raised. We all have our special techniques. You can feel that trapped air shouldering its way, bit by bit, through your pipes, determined to exit. Nothing will stop it. It is a blast forged in the pits of hell.
Kisses may come from heaven, but a fart is the devils work.
And already, before its even over, you can hear her screams of disgust, “You f@#king pig!”
Ah yes, morning has broken!
