I've come to the conclusion that while I sleep at night, my body fills up slowly with air, my sides expanding and threatening to split, similar to pumping up an air mattress and when I slowly come out of dreamy sleep in the morning I'm ready to burst! And then I hear a noise in the distance. Morning thunder. A loud cacophony of pops, bangs, cracks, squeals, and followed up by a hot breeze under the covers.
Morning thunder is
not a laughing matter. Some people find it embarrassing, but I'm quite proud of the noises my body is capable of making. It's exciting, exhilarating, and most of all, it feels fantastic. It can be unpredictable, like a tornado; other times, it can be as common as morning breath. Sometimes the two even smell the same.
Usually my body will give me subtle hints that it's ready to explode. First there's gurgling in the depths of my belly, followed up by extreme pressure near the back door. Then I feel the air being forced out of my lungs as I hold my breath, and I let go. No regrets. It's out of my control once the air leaves my body and I cannot be held responsible for any negative consequences.
The only person who doesn't enjoy my morning thunder as much as I do is Emily. Most mornings she can sleep right through it, but there have been times when my fart storms have been more reliable than her alarm clock in ensuring she get out of bed on time for work. There have been times when my farts are as loud as air horns; her sleep is startled and I feel her practically jump out of her skin. Like I said, I'm not responsible for the hot air that goes in my body or the manner in which it comes out.
One particular morning, after a night of heavy drinking, I awoke to my cat meowing in my face. Once my eyes open, my body takes that as a sign to begin releasing the gas and hot air reserves it's been holding hostage overnight. I don't even have time to glance at a clock or rub my eyes before the three phases of morning thunder start:
Phase one: hot air release. Phhfft. Pfffttt. Phllllllllbbbbbbbbbb.
Phase two: symphony of loud noises: Blaaattt! Brraaapp! Phlooot!
Phase three: me stifling my laughter: Huhhhuhhuhhuh. Hehehehe.
That morning was no different. But once I had completed all three phases, I realized it wasn't over. Apparently there were multiple storms on the horizon and my internal meteorologist had not warned me. The night before, I had poured beer, tequila, and shoved authentic Mexican food down the hatch. The perfect recipe for a thunderous fart storm. Usually I can control the decibels of certain farts simply by lying on my back and making sure my butt is pressed firmly into the mattress so there is no noise, similar to a silencer on a gun.
But not that morning. Nothing could muffle these earsplitting claps of fart thunder. Some were loud, some were quieter, almost like a massive earthquake and then a few aftershocks. After a break in the clouds, I peeked over at Emily, who appeared to be sound asleep. Then another bout of farts loudly escaped my body and I again stole a glance in Emily's direction. No movement, which was surprising because even my cat had hissed in anger and jumped off the bed from being startled too many times by unexpected loud ass noises.
The logical thing to do would have been to go into the bathroom or in the living room and release my gas so I wouldn't wake Emily up, but it was early in the morning and the sun wasn't even up. I was far too lazy to get up and take my fart storm elsewhere.
And then the fart finale came. It was louder than any Fourth of July fireworks celebration, motorcycle clan, and thunderstorm I had ever heard in my entire life. In hindsight, I probably should have worn earplugs to protect my eardrums from any damage. The finale lasted no longer than fifteen seconds, and when it was over, I looked around to make certain a Molotov cocktail or a Chinese firecracker had not been lit in my bedroom.
As scared as I was to look over at Emily for fear that she would be dead from the loud noises and deadly poison hovering over our bed like smog, I needed to make sure she was still alive. I could not see any signs of breathing and since she was facing the other way, I couldn't tell if her eyes were open or not. Now what do I do? Peer over her shoulder like a creeper and risk her rolling over and seeing me hovering over her? Get out of bed and walk around to the other side? Or just wait for a sign of life?
I didn't have to wait long for proof that she was still alive.
"Goddamnit! Go take a fucking crap or something!" Emily yelled loudly, her breath leaving trails through the fart clouds, her voice reverberating off the walls. I lay there, shell-shocked. Her sudden yelling had startled me almost as badly as I had startled the cat with my tooting. I feared for my life. I was quiet for a minute or two and thought if I pretended to be asleep, she wouldn't be as mad. I mean, you can't blame the sleeping, can you?
"Morning honey," I said, feigning innocence and trying to adjust the pitch in my voice to the sleepiest tone I could muster. Emily was no fool; she knew I was wide awake when I unleashed the fury of fart thunder just moments before.
"You are unFUCKINGbelievable," she yelled angrily, pulling the covers over her head. Wow. It was a rare occasion that she dropped the F-bomb, and by F-bomb I don't mean anything remotely related to the Hiroshima style fart bombs I just dropped. She must be really pissed! I was about to tell her that giving herself a Dutch oven with my flammable gas under our covers wasn't such a good idea, but changed my mind. If she wanted to breathe in recycled fart air and suffocate, go right ahead. But Emily is no fool. She didn't last longer than a few seconds before she surfaced for fresh air and rolled over to face me.
I tried to be as cute and cuddly as possible after conducting a fart symphony so she wouldn't stay mad at me for waking/scaring/poisoning her. But there's nothing cute about a twenty-something year old woman who farts louder, longer, and more often than your average fraternity boy or grumpy old man.
"You sleep okay?" I whispered, daring to gently touch her arm.
"Yes, I slept fine until you decided to shit your pants and wake me up with your goddamn farting! Seriously, I thought someone had broken in the house and had shot off a million firecrackers in our bedroom so we would be deaf and scared before they raped and killed us! But no, it wasn't a home invasion! It was just you and your goddamn loud farting!" she screamed at me.
OH boy. I had done it now. Tropical Fart Storm KC had ravaged our bedroom and the damage had been great. Paint had peeled, sheets had been polluted with poisonous gas, and Emily had nearly suffered a massive coronary. Since that morning, I have made an effort to be extremely careful about my morning thunder, and the mattress certainly takes a brutal beating every single morning. But I'd rather the mattress take the beating because I'm confident the next time I wake up Emily with another fart storm, I will get punched in the face and probably the ovaries as well to guarantee I will never spawn a loud tooting mini-me.
Emily has suggested I take Beano, go see a gastroenterologist, or go to etiquette school to learn some manners, but I'm only doing what nature intended! I'm releasing gas! It's not very often she finds farting amusing, probably because she is a mature adult. If she passes gas, she is so polite that she will say excuse me every single time! Where's the fun and humor in that?
I know I'm not the only adult out there who has earsplitting and deafening morning thunder, nor am I the only grown adult who finds farting to be comical and entertaining. I agree it can be gross and mildly inappropriate at times, especially when you end up walking behind a middle-aged obese woman at Walgreen's who can't stop farting, but for the most part it's often laugh worthy. I can't help it but laugh; no matter what you say or how old I am, nothing will convince me that farting is not funny.
There's no one in this world who finds farting funnier than I do than my amazing (and often gassy) friend Amanda. It is she who sent me a book called "Farts: A Spotter's Guide", just a few months ago, a book that identifies the habitat, range, voice, and "field marks" of ten common farts, along with hilarious illustrations. There is also an attached battery powered fart machine that reproduces each emanation in accurate sound, so while you read, you have a hands on learning tool. Not only is this book extremely educational, but it's also a great conversation piece. When I have friends over, that fart book gets a workout!
Amanda is a girl who not only cackles every time she toots, but she also has been known to light her farts on fire (please do
not try this at home). Sometimes she feels the need to call me and leave me a fartmail if I don't answer, but if I do answer, it's rare that she (and not her ass) says hello. Thankfully I have a friend like Amanda, someone who can appreciate my nose wrinkling, breath-holding, ass-exploding fart humor. Without her, I'd look like the only idiot who laughs at farts, so I'm glad there are two of us.
I'm not at all ashamed of farting. Everyone in my life has gotten used to it. They have all accepted the fact that I laugh every single time I fart, without fail. In fact, when my friends and even some family members see books about bodily functions, my name instantly comes to mind. I guess you could say I have left my skidmark on many people's lives. For my last birthday, my own father got me a "Poo Log" to keep by the toilet. I've used it twice; then Emily removed it from the toilet handle and hid it somewhere I'm probably too short to reach. She has no funny bone for toilet humor.
my your entertainment and education, I have compiled a list of my top ten favorite farts, or TTFF. The list is in no particular order and is not all-inclusive. Before you get grossed out or embarrassed, let me remind you that we all fart. Every single one of us. So stop denying it already! After all, a fart is just a turd honking for the right of way, so be polite and let him out!
Top Ten Favorite Farts (TTFF)
1. Bubbler: The only fart you can see!
Sound: silent but bubbly
Culprits: Olympic swimmers, children, senior citizens
Habitat: pools, lakes, hot tubs
2. Front Traveler (alias: Queef) The fart that sneaks out the front door!
Sound: sputtering, similar to car running out of gas
Culprits: fat girls, mothers, models, bankers
Habitat: church pews, PTA meetings, doctor offices, Lane Bryant
3. Chinese Firecracker: The fart that will give you a start!
Sound: a series of loud pops, bangs, crackles, and pops
Culprits: Prisoners, grandfathers, the Irish
Habitat: fraternity houses, jails, holiday cookouts
4. Quacking Duck: The fart that quacks back!
Sound: clucking chicken; fowl mating call
Culprits: politicians, housemates, lesbians
Habitat: showers, bathtubs, dormitory hallways
5. Popcorn Fart: The fart that is hot enough to pop corn!
Sound: rapid firing of hot, small farts, like the putter of a moped engine
Culprits: priests, the deaf, athletes, valedictorians
Habitat: churches, theme parks, graduation ceremonies
6. Flutterblast: The fart you can almost ride on!
Sound: like a boat motor, partially submerged in water
Culprits: teenagers, creepy uncles, gym teachers
Habitat: hot showers, stairwells, locker rooms, sports arenas
7. Smog: The fart that leaves a hole in the ozone layer!
Sound: silent (but deadly); often leaves a thick blanket of poisonous gas
Culprits: lawyers, dogs, TV show hosts, coroners
Habitats: first dates, courthouses, funeral homes, elevators, live TV
8. Shart: The "gamble and lose" fart!
Sound: similar to air pockets popping in a mudslide
Culprits: Boy Scouts, military personnel, AARP members
Habitats: the desert, fast food restaurants, nursing homes, crime scenes
9. One Cheek Squeak Sneak: The sneakiest and squeakiest of all farts!
Sound: like a warm delicate breeze; often with a high-pitched squeak
Culprits: exam proctors, students, the President, preachers
Habitats: high schools, NYSE, the Oval Office, boardrooms, in-law's house
10. Jail Break: Even farts make a break for it after hours of being locked up!
Sound: variety of noises; often unpredictable
Culprits: retail clerks, garbage men, golfers, motivational speakers
Habitats: break rooms, hotel lobbies, bachelor pads