PLEASE: No Outside Food, Turn Off Your Cellphones, Silence Your Assholes

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Those of you that know me, or have been reading this blog for a while, know that I am not a fan of flatus jokes.

You know what I’m talking about. I’m sure you make them all the time. Maybe you post comics on Facebook about blowing them under the covers; or you tell jokes about your husband ripping them in the privacy of an intimate 20-30 person family party.

Then again maybe you are more comfortable with the wind that comes from the assholes of everyone. Perhaps you are like that woman that I saw once – years ago – on Lifetime’s Wife Swap reruns. She would pass her horrifying (and quite frankly excessive for a woman,  in my opinion) gas into empty plastic bottles, then close the bottles to PRESERVE THE SCENT TO EXPOSE TO HER CHILDREN AS A JOKE LATER IN THE DAY.

Yes. You just read what I wrote. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.

My husband sometimes is the worst because he does not say what all men should say in the presence of a fucking lady, such as myself – “excuse me.” Or even “sorry.” Every once in a while I get up and walk out of the room, screaming as I go like the stark-raving lunatic that I am, something along the lines of: “why don’t you just drop your pants and take a shit in front of me while you’re at it!” Other times I say nothing because I’m fairly certain he would if he thought I wouldn’t mind.

It comes from his dad. Sometimes I think he (my father-in-law) tears the lining of his asshole, he just does it so much and so violently. Violently, like bring in the SWAT guys with the protest beating sticks-violently. Then he’s proud of it. He’ll try and waft it around the room (as if this is even possible) with his hands, then he’ll do it again only that time you think it might be time to call a doctor, or possibly even 9-1-1.

My mother-in-law gets pretty mad about it sometimes too, about as mad as I do towards my husband. You see how this goes.

A few years ago I was in the post office and this lady leaned over the counter, grunting and looking to be in a considerable amount of pain. I almost went over to ask if she was OK; though I’m glad I didn’t. It turned out she just needed to get some wind out herself. I blogged about that, so you’re welcome to read about it HERE if you want.

But first…

As I said, I am not a fan of gas jokes. The F-A-R-T word is NOT allowed in our house. I just think it’s crude and disgusting, and sure I get that everyone does it. But everyone takes a shit on a regular basis too, are we doing that publicly as well? No. No we are not. (At least the majority of us…the others, well you know who you are…) It is not and never will be socially acceptable, in fact I’m pretty sure if I were to drop my pants and take a dump in the middle of the grocery store I would very likely be assumed mentally ill. Even if I didn’t drop my pants but still took a dump while in the butter aisle of my local Vons, things would not go over very well. Why then can people putter around the store as though there’s a trombone festival coming out of their assholes while they pick out their Rice A Roni and applesauce?

You get my point. I’m not a fan of talking about these things. Or witnessing them – especially witnessing them.

UntitledYou can all imagine then my shock and horror, and absolute disgust, when I was sitting in a waiting room and this man sitting there waiting for his appointment kept blowing them over and over, and over again. I was waiting for my daughter, who was dealing with her jerk father in Texas (who has ironically taken a shit publicly in a box and put it in a coworker’s locker, but we’ll save that one for another blog post some other time…).

For forty minutes, or so, I waited with this gassy man and his anus.

It wasn’t even just that. He was sitting there on his computer. A laptop. Tip-typing away, while I read on my Kindle, waiting. He just tip-typed and I knew I had seen him there before. Worse, I will very likely have to face him again. We were just sitting there, then all of a sudden he would blow one. It sounded something like a very long, very slow, trumpet. Then he’d laugh and say “sorry” out loud (at least he apologized, I suppose); but never once did he look up from his typing.

And I say never once because it happened again, the same way. Very long, very slow trumpet. Followed by a “sorry” and continuing to type. Then it happened again, and again, and then another time – until it had been a total of NINETEEN TIMES that this guy had blown his butt bugle slowly, without looking up or getting up to – oh, I don’t know – deal with whatever was going on with his intestines that required him to blow so much air out of them in a relatively public place.

It was just awful.

There’s a sign in the waiting room that says “please no outside food, turn off your cellphones.” This is – quite obviously – for the courtesy of all the rest of us that are sitting there and may or may not be interested in smelling your day-old Chipotle burrito; and/or listening to a loud conversation you have on your cellphone with your Aunt Mable about your cousin Jimmy knocking up his step-sister. I feel like they should add another thing on there. For the goodness of humanity and – at the very least – my sanity.

Because the next time that guy does something like that, I may just do something crazy. Like drop my pants and pee in the artificial tree in the corner of the room, just to show this guy how much fun it is to witness another person’s bodily functions to such a magnanimous degree.

Then again something tells me he might enjoy it.

Flatus

…I know… so much to wrap your minds around on this one. Perhaps this video of a deer in the woods with its own wind-related issues will help you get over this post. Now may we never speak of any of this again.

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STFU Fridays: Butt Rockets

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Oh, where do I begin?

If you know me personally, have followed the blog for a while, or read my most recent book, you know that I’m not a fan of flatus jokes. I am not a fan of flatus either. Nor am I a fan of the word “fart.” It isn’t allowed in my house. If gas coming out of the ass must be discussed, alternative – less crude – words are used. And then whomever has brought it up gets a stern look from me and an understanding that jokes will not be tolerated.

I don’t know what it is. It might be that growing up, my friends (and I had a lot of guy friends too) didn’t joke about it like I hear people joking now. It wasn’t as socially acceptable.

We didn’t have fucking fart machines.

Besides talking about my disgust for the topic in my book, I think I have only blogged about it once. It was when I went to the post office and saw a woman leaning over the “help yourself” table, while I got the mail out of the postal box. I started to worry that she was in some sort of distress because she seemed to be grunting, and her head was down. I started walking over to her and then suddenly she ripped one so loudly the entire post office went silent, and the stamps on the envelopes started to peel. Then she moaned a sigh of relief and went about her business.

I blogged about that one. Who wouldn’t?

Nonetheless, the flatus jokes and comments and incidences have gotten to something of a fever pitch as of late. It’s in too many kid’s movies we’ve seen. Too many times it’s happened in my presence in the most precarious and awkward ways possible.

So I thought that for this Shut the Fuck Up Friday, we’d plug up the inappropriate butt rockets once and for all.

Excuse Yourself, Or Plug Up Your Butt Rocket

My husband’s father and my husband – both alike – have a very serious problem. They both have major fucking gas issues, yet never – NOT ONCE – acknowledges them and/or fucking apologizes for emitting that shit in front of the rest of us with an “excuse me.”

It’s so offensive when my husband sits there and talks to me, blows his anal trombone, then continues to talk as if nothing has happened. Looks me straight in the eye while he does it and does not even flinch one bit. Would it fucking kill you to flinch already?

The other night, he was eating his dinner and did it. His dinner. His goddamn chicken and rice dinner. Food. Food and flatus – what a romantic evening that was. I considered suggesting he just drop his pants and take a shit right there for all of us to enjoy, but then that would have been rude.

Wait, no … rude is blowing butt rockets and not at least saying “excuse me.” Excuse yourself, or plug it up.

When It Could Make A Situation Very Awkward, Plug Up Your Butt Rocket

Last week we were getting ready to move and both my mom and dad were helping me pack up the last of our things the day before the movers were scheduled to come.

A little backstory on my parents: they have been divorced since I was eight. They have been divorced since I was eight, and my mom has remarried a man that lives in a trailer in New Mexico. They have been divorced since I was eight, and yet they still see each other regularly, and in spite of being remarried my dad still helps my mom out a lot. Read that as financially.

It’s way more awkward than that too.

So you can imagine the strangeness of it all when we were at our old apartment last week, and my parents were both there helping pack. My mom was in the kitchen and my dad in the dining room, and my dad and I were talking about something when suddenly my mom blew her own anal bugle and said “oops…sorry!”

Well Pookie didn’t notice the noise, and asked why she was sorry; but in the middle of asking interrupted herself with “why does it suddenly smell like fertilizer in here?”

My dad dropped his head in his hands and said “oh my God,” and my mom flushed red and asked where the wine was. Which I don’t think she needed any more of anyway, since that seems to be what blows her butt rocket bugle anyway.

It truly was an awkward time for everyone. The overlying lesson here is: when it could truly make a situation very awkward, plug that shit up.

Always Plug It Up If You Think There’s A Chance Your Butt Rocket Could Really Be A Butt Grenade

What I’m trying to say is that if you think there is a fairly good probability that you might let one go only to really shit your pants: just don’t do it. Maybe you just had a Taco Bell 12 pack and your stomach feels a little funny. Maybe you’ve been clogged and just guzzled an entire bottle of Milk of Magnesia.

Maybe you’re Al Roker.

Even in the privacy of your own home. There is never a time that crapping yourself is pretty. Or funny. Or enjoyable.

And on the note of butt grenades: there is never a time that other people need to experience yours.

That means that if you go into the bathroom and things aren’t going well, try to keep your mouth shut. You don’t need to moan and groan and audibly strain so that we all have to know you ate one too many bricks of havarti cheese.

It also means that people don’t need to hear about how your bowels are doing. They talk about their bowels at my in-laws all the time, and I am usually horrified. Beyond belief. Or someone will come into the room and ask for a newspaper “because it’s going to be a while.” I for one don’t know why people read in the bathroom, but it’s true that some people do it. My aunt plays Sudoku.

That doesn’t mean we all need to hear about your butt bombs being the reason you need something to keep you occupied.

And for God’s sakes: don’t ever – I MEAN EVER – intentionally share your butt grenades with others. By share I mean share, like you’d share a bucket of popcorn at the movies by holding out the bucket, or pouring some into a napkin. I may or may not know of someone that perhaps has taken a dump in a shoe box and taped it up, then put it in the locker of someone he did not get along with at work.

No one deserves the butt grenades of another.

So with that, I think I’ll end this – no doubt the classiest of the STFU Fridays. Just remember: when it comes to butt rockets, excuse yourself, avoid unnecessary awkwardness, and for the love of God, keep your butt grenades to yourself.

If you guys need me, I’ll be hanging my head in shame and hiding out until all this flatus blog stuff blows over. Happy Friday, now plug your butt rockets and SHUT THE FUCK UP!