When he wasn’t busy writing biting satires railing against the social inequities of 18th century Britain, Jonathan Swift would sometimes turn out other, less noble pieces of literature. One such piece was a treatise on farting. While this particular piece of work was not terribly well received (at least no one would admit to liking it), it has, in its way, proven to be inspirational. For me, the mere knowledge that it exists–just knowing that the fiery trail of flatulence literature has been blazed before me–has given me the chutzpah to proceed with this week’s column. (I feel I should mention something here about “standing on the shoulders of giants,” but, considering the topic under discussion, the imagery might be a bit much). Yes, in case you haven’t guessed it already, this is a column about farting; more specifically, my children’s love of it.
Now, the first thing I need to establish is that I am not above a good fart joke. I will giggle with the best of them when some poor actor on stage intones, “Speak to me, O lips that have never told a lie,” and a digestively gifted person in the audience ad libs a reply.
As a matter of fact, it wasn’t that long ago that my friend Regina and I, during a bike tour of Scotland, came across a book of Scottish ghost stories with the line (spoken by the soon-to-be-ghostly child residents of a burning castle) “Mither, mither, the reek it smithers me!” and adopted said line as our own personal warning system for whenever the Scottish ale and kippers got to be too much for our American systems. (“I wouldn’t come into the tent right now.” “Why?” “The reek; it’ll smither you.”)
And I always enjoy it when my friend Bill entertains us with his stories of being snowed in on Denali for three days with two tent-mates and a seemingly endless supply of salmon jerky.
I would even go so far as to say that I am still able to appreciate a good fart joke when the joke is on me: the last time I went hiking in Antelope Canyon with my daughter, Clementine, she took perverse delight in “crop-dusting” the narrowest, tightest confines of the slot canyon ahead of me–and let me tell you, kippers and salmon jerky have nothing on a girl who survives on nothing but potato chips, sweet tarts, and yogurt. ( I doubt whether even people deep in the canyon when the flash flood sirens go off ever made better time climbing the ladders out of there than I did). But even so: I was laughing.
So it’s true: I do like a good fart joke; my children, however, absolutely adore them. (Especially my son, Clyde, whose obvious bliss at being able to stand naked on the arm of the couch and greet people with his own special version of “Ode to Joy” just reinforces my belief that’s he’s only biding his time with us until the new frat house opens at NAU.)
So, then, what’s the problem? I guess when it comes down to it, the thing that bothers me the most about my children’s predilection for farting jokes is that, even when I’m in on the joke, I’m not. Just as the “dead baby” jokes of my childhood drew the line between what I thought was funny and what my mother did, the farting jokes of my children are supposed to draw the line between what they think is funny and what I do. While I may laugh at the “fart in the bath tub” routine the first five times, they’ll still be laughing at it after fart number twenty. To them, when I’m no longer laughing is when the joke really becomes funny. In a way, I guess that’s my role: to them, I’m just another Yahoo.