Thursday, January 05, 2006

The Freedom to Fart

I once dated a guy who forbade me to fart. I had to hold my fart and go to what he deemed to be an authorized farting location, you know, like a bathroom or downwind from any human being or 15 feet from the state line.

I felt like how smokers must feel nowadays: shunned, frowned upon, a second class citizen. I imagine what it's like to be a second class citizen; it must be hard. They must suffer from low self-esteem. I make a mental note to myself that the smoking section would be a good place to try to pick up guys, if I ever became single.

True Love isn't the flowers, the diamond ring or a generous pre-nup agreement. You know you've got True Love when you have the ability to freely expel intestinal gas through the anus. You know you've found the right guy when you can fart freely and often.

I think most straight guys don't even think about this in a relationship. They watched their fathers fart loudy in front of their mothers; guffawing as their wives futilely admonish them. They grew up, walking around, kings of their castle, a dark, smelly cloud trailing behind them, the peasants--I mean, their families--choking in their wake.

And women, I don't know how they can hold it in. Women are not allowed to fart EVER. I feel like we need to tie a string around their ankles, because eventually, they would float around like a balloon from holding in all those gases. Or better yet, use the string hanging from their tampons.

Can you imagine if a woman was allowed to fart? It would change the world. Of course women complain that their husbands or boyfriends don't understand them! How can they? Maybe if the women put a cork in their men's asses for one day, maybe men can begin to understand women.

I think the reason why Muslim women are happy to wear a full burqua, a garment which covers them from head to toe because underneath it, they can fart freely. Think of it, a burqua muffles the sound of a fart and the odor doesn't escape. Underneath those veils, those women must be smiling.

But gay men, we're in that middle zone where you're not a straight man nor a woman. It this middle ground, we are trapped by society, by prejudice, by the heavy weight of our accessories. When we fart, we must do so artistically. Our farts have to play a tune, from a hit Broadway musical, an opera or maybe a little jaunty ringtone. In fact, I knew a guy who told me he could fart in a pitch-perfect E. You could tune a guitar to it. Or a skin flute.

Having the freedom to fart is a wonderful thing. Suddenly, the world is your oyster--and the world can smell the oysters you had for dinner.

Of course, there are unfortunate (or fortunate) side-effects of having the freedom to fart: it becomes harder to remember when it is impolite to fart. You begin to forget your manners.

I remember when my boyfriend and I were first allowing ourselves to fart in front of each other, we would apologetically say "oops, sorry!" when a fart escapes. Now it's more like "Thaaar she bloooows!"

It becomes even more difficult in public. The fart is out of the bag, so to speak, how does one stuff it back in? You find yourself unconsciously farting and trying to escape the stench even as it follows you around as if it was a begging dog and you had a treat in your pocket. A real dog though, would die within seconds from even a small whiff.

Why is that? Why can't we leave farts behind? Why do they follow us? No matter how fast I try to run away from a fart, it usually follows me for at least until somebody is within whiffing distance.

I pray I don't ever have to be single again. The pain of having to hold in a fart could be more painful than that of a broken heart...

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