Category: Funny Business

Flatulence.

According to Merriam-Webster, the primary definition of flatulence is, “the quality or state of being flatulent.”

Frankly, that tells me nothing.

It’s like looking up petulance and seeing it defined as “the quality or state of being petul.”

The secondary definition, though, lays it all out there.

“Flatus expelled through the anus.”

Now we’re talking.

There are roughly 7.5 billion people on the planet, and the vast majority of them have anuses. And I’m going to venture a guess that every single one of them has to expel flatus several times a week.

Yes, I realize this topic makes some people uncomfortable.

It’s rarely discussed at the dinner table, unless of course the theme of dinner is gas and the main dish is 15-bean soup.

And I’ve never heard of an instance where it came up during a job interview, but I’d like to have been there if it did.

“So, Mr. Smith, I see you have a B.A. degree and several years’ experience in the field. One quick question though … where do you stand on flatulence?”

“You mean, expelling flatus through my anus?”

“Yes.”

“Personally, I’m all for it.”

“Great! I think you’ll fit in just fine here at Buttblaster Industries.”

Clearly, flatulence never finds its way into polite conversation. But really, it’s not the fault of flatus.

It’s the fault of you and me.

For starters, we’ve given it unappealing nicknames, like “farts” and “backdoor trumpets” and “butt cheek squeaks.” All are lowbrow – maybe even offensive.

They sound bad when you say them and even worse when you hear them.

Therefore, I think the first step in softening the reputation of flatulence is to give it a brighter, happier name.

My choice is “Chip.”

Once people are no longer afraid to talk about it (“Chip” is offensive to no one), then maybe we can take the next step and remove the shame.

I never admitted this to my co-workers over the years, but oftentimes I would get up from my chair and tell them I was going to step outside and “stretch my legs.”

I did this a lot during the course of the day, but I really wasn’t going outside to stretch my legs at all.

I just had to Chip, and Chip sometimes makes quite a racket.

The sounds vary, of course, from a creak to a plaintive wail to the unsettling noise sometimes associated with knocking over a filing cabinet.

For whatever reason, my Chips often have a sharp report.

One time, while standing outside the building at my last job, I unleashed a Chip that sounded very much like a firecracker. It was so loud birds nesting in nearby trees were startled and flew off in a panic. There might have even been a police report filed, although I can’t say for sure.

But if we weren’t ashamed of the noise, we wouldn’t have to lie to our friends.

It would’ve been nice if, while at work, I could’ve just jumped up, said, “I have to Chip,” and ran outside. And if anyone heard it, they could just shrug it off.

Because like I said, we all Chip.

Yet the biggest problem with Chip is that he often comes with some unwanted odor.

There are some that are mild and only slightly disagreeable, but there are others that carry the scent of week-old road kill dipped in balsamic vinaigrette. (And I’m not saying how I know this, but anyone who has consumed eggs and drank beer during the course of a day and feels a need to Chip must be quarantined, and his or her city of residence should be evacuated).

That being the case, even when we make Chip more accepted by society we have to recognize the fact that he is best released in wide-open spaces.

Because even if there comes a day when people have no qualms talking about expelling flatus through their anuses, there are limitations.

After all, if somebody Chips in an elevator, they need to have their asses kicked.

 

I have never, at any point in my life, “enjoyed” shopping.

All I’ve ever wanted to do is walk into a store, find what I need, buy it, and leave.
Today, however – after 57 years on the planet – I have reached a level of hatred for the ritual that I can’t put into words (although I’m gonna try).

Now, before I continue, I should probably clarify something.

Shopping online is fine. I have no issues with that method of commerce whatsoever. As long as I can find a mankini at a reasonable price, purchase it via PayPal and then have it delivered to my home in three to five business days, I’m cool with it.

But it’s the kind of shopping that involves interacting with other carbon-based life forms that I cannot abide.

Recently, I was tasked with buying sweatpants and vitamins, and the only place I’ve been able to find these particular vitamins is at the big box store near my house.

I won’t name it here, but you can probably figure it out.

(Here’s a hint: It’s not Target).

Every time I go into this particular store – for the purposes of this column, I’ll call it “Hellmart” – it’s jam-packed with people, many whom are barefoot and bereft of teeth.

I’m not trying to be a smart ass – there but by the grace of socks and a dental rider go I – but it just seems like “my” local Hellmart draws all the people who weren’t quite classy enough to join the cast of “Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo.”

And they tend to run in packs of three.

Just as I was entering the store, there were three mountain folk entering and three more exiting – and nary a one had been deprived of food.

Certainly, there’s nothing wrong with being plus-size. I’ve been playing tug-of-war with girth for years. However, when you’re plus-size and walking side-by-side with other plus-size people – and moving at the pace of a sloth dosed on Nyquil – that’s a problem for everyone of all shapes and sizes.

I call these people Meanderthals, because they are all over the damn aisle and completely unaware that maybe, just maybe, they’re impeding the progress of people like me who want to get the hell out of Hellmart as quickly as possible.

Fortunately, I had a game plan once I got there. I knew where the sweatpants were, found a pair in my size, then zipped over to the pharmacy and grabbed my vitamins.

In a perfect world, I could’ve gone to self-checkout and escaped with a minimum of emotional damage.

But the self-checkout line looked like a Duck Dynasty convention, and there was no way I was going to wait them out.

So … I scoped out all the checkout lines and found one that had only two customers besides me in it. Checking out first was a young woman who looked to be around 17, wearing blue jeans and a tee shirt that read, “Keep Calm and Fish.”

While she was being rung up she was talking on her cellphone and, while I don’t know who was on the other end of the call, I do know the person was “full of shit.”

Next in line was a 20-something barefoot woman with a toddler, who had a buggy with six to eight toddler-type items inside.

These items easily could’ve been scooped up and placed on the conveyer belt all at once.

Instead, Betty Barefoot was carefully picking up each one, gingerly removing it from the basket, and slowly placing it on the belt.

I was getting close to cursing out loud but I didn’t want her child to hear me because one, I love children and don’t want them to experience distress and two, this kid had gigantic ears and would’ve most certainly heard me even if I had uttered obscenities under my breath.

Finally, after eight hours or so Barefoot Betty and her elephant-eared kid were done so I was able to make my purchase and run screaming to the car.

Of course I couldn’t run unimpeded — there was a new pack of Meanderthals blocking my exit.

I love texting.

For those of us who’d simply rather not go to all the trouble of actually speaking to another human being, it has become an invaluable tool of modern communication. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I actually “spoke” to anyone on my phone.

It’s not that I don’t like people, it’s just that I don’t like talking to people.

But – in a bit of a disconnect – I much prefer using voice text when I have an impersonal conversation.

The only problem is that sometimes things get lost in translation, which makes me wonder if I don’t speak clearly or if the artificial intelligence inside my iPhone isn’t as intelligent as it claims to be.

Case in point – last week my wife and I were talk-texting over the phone and I was joking about how we needed interim decorations between Halloween and Christmas.

I suggested putting a horn of plenty on the table in honor of Thanksgiving.

Only problem is “horn of plenty” came out “whore and plain tea” in the text. I’m pretty sure that sentence has never, ever come out of my mouth.

Besides, since I live in the south, I’d be talking about sweet tea whether a whore was involved or not.

Another time I talk-texted that I was headed to the hardware store to get “Gorilla Glue” but it spelled out “girls and glue.”

Again, something I’d never say … it’s something Keith Morrison would say on Dateline.

And more recently I was leaving a press conference and emailed her to let her know that it was business as usual, except, “A guy was flatulent.”

Oddly, flatulent came out “Argyle get joint.”

A less learned woman would’ve thought I had gone to a press conference where a sock was trying to get high.

Of course there are less extreme examples.

We have a cat named “Bane” but it always comes out “Bain” on talk-text. My wife knows who I’m talking about, so the spelling is inconsequential.

And it’s not like Bane (or Bain, if you prefer), would get offended if he happened to glance over at the phone and see that his name was misspelled.

I doubt even he knows how to spell it … he has enough trouble pronouncing it.

Now, I’ve been told by some younger people that talk-texting is not held in high-regard and honestly, I didn’t realize that.

It just seems so much more convenient than looking down and typing away – especially if you’re driving and trying to extract the cork from the wine bottle you have situated between your legs.

Yet regardless of whether you type or talk into your phone, there’s always the chance of dialing what used to be a “wrong number.”

During football season I texted with coaches quite a bit. And often it would be moments before or after I had been in contact with my wife.

As I was walking into the office I texted my wife and said, “Made it safely to work. Love you!

Except that message accidentally went to a coach.

Fortunately, it turns out he loves me, too – even more than a whore with plain tea.