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!

We Interrupt Our Regular STFU Programming For a Burp

Holy Mother of all that is good, this was by far the crappiest, most horrible and heinous week I’ve had in a long time.

Don’t get me wrong, my life usually blows a big one. And I mean bigger than an elephant’s schlong, or that World’s Biggest Thermometer out in the Mohave Desert. This one really takes the cake.

We’ve all had colds. Our increased rent is breathing down our necks, forcing us into making decisions. I’m still really homesick and want to move back to Chicago and my family so badly I can barely breathe anymore. My husband is still a misogynist. It’s been all tantrums and difficulty on the homeschooling front all week. And then this morning my husband got into a car accident, then proceeded to yell at me as if it was my fault.

Shitty week. So shitty that it’s all I can do to just sit on the couch and eat my Funmallows as I wallow in my own self-pity on the evening of this Shut the Fuck Up Friday.

Despite all this chaos, I had an STFU Fridays in the hopper, all ready to go. It went a little something like this:

My week has been so horrible I cannot even begin to describe how I am feeling right now. I know, I know … you are all thinking that I always have an awful week. Every day is full of bullshit. Well, that’s a little true and a little not true. I do pay a lot of attention to my surroundings, and so I notice more that others don’t always catch. And life is just really hard right now because I’m very unhappy. I’m also married to someone with whom drama swirls around, which causes a little bit of drama on a daily basis for me as well.

In any event, this week has sucked a big one. And what frustrates me the most about it is when I try to say that it’s been a hard week and some dillhole says in response to my complaining “well, just remember, someone has it much harder than you out there.”

Yeah, sure. Someone has it harder. Someone is living on the streets. Someone is starving to death. Someone is suffering from alcohol addiction or a drug problem. Someone has cancer or emphezyma. Someone out there is having their house foreclosed on. 

There are a million possibilities.

But I can’t help but say to the people that say that, the people that always say “just remember, someone has it much harder than you;” the shamers that want you to feel bad for letting out your feelings about whatever you are going through, no matter how trivial it may seem to them – I want to say to them that it’s about time they shut the fuck up. Seriously. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Everyone deals with everything differently. Everyone experiences everything from a different perspective. I’m not saying my piddly shit problems and unhappiness in California compares to someone that just lost a loved one or had any of the other horse shit things happen to them that have not happened to me, and are insurmountably worse than what I am going through. I’m just saying that people need to shut the fuck up and stop shaming me for feeling like shit about a shitty situation.

It’s okay to feel like shit.

It’s okay to be upset.

It is okay to have negative feelings sometimes.

It’s okay to let it out and feel like garbage because something is going wrong for you.

All people that say that bullshit about “just remember someone has it worse off than you” are doing is trying to shame you into feeling guilty for feeling like your life is shitty or you got a bum rap. 

Seriously… shut the fuck – – – – – – – –

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

We interrupt our regular STFU Programming for a Burp.

So at this point, we were out to dinner with my dad tonight and I was starting to bitch and complain about the car accident that my husband got into today, and the fact that he yelled at me as if it was my fault and problem to deal with. Then my dad was starting to do his usual “someone else out there has it worse than you” rap he usually goes into, and I about to tell him to shut the fuck up, when the waitress walked up and my dad opened his mouth to order his Diet Coke and tacos and instead of words, an uproarious belch came shrieking out of his skull cave.

The waitress started to laugh.

We all started to laugh.

I was laughing so hard I started crying.

My dad apologized about eight times.

We aren’t just talking about a little squeaker of a burp. We are talking the foulest and most gutteral sound any human being could utter.

Out of my father’s mouth. With the waitress and all of us right there.

I didn’t really get a chance to complain about the week and my horrible times, and my dad didn’t get an opportunity to tell me that someone in the world has it worse off than me.

And that was my Shut the Fuck Up Friday. Began with bullshit. Ended with a belch.

I think we’ve all learned a number of lessons, here. Now shut the fuck up!

Toilet Humor

Okay, for real.  What is going on with people and their obsessions with the bathroom?  I see three arenas where this has become entirely out of control:

1) Jokes About Flatulence and Other Bathroom Incidences in Children’s Movies

The only thing worse than the level of jokes about flatulence in children’s programming and major motion pictures is when they break out the testicular humor.  But seriously, what kind of values can we possibly be teaching children when every other word out of the mouths of the characters that are to give them moral rigor is followed up with a “pull my finger” joke?

2) Flatulence and Other Related Sounds on Phone and Tablet Apps

I don’t know about you, but I did not buy my iPad, nor my HTC EVO, to put applications on them that can reproduce (at the most inopportune time) the loud sounds of activities normally reserved for the bathroom.  What is so funny about this?  I really don’t understand.  There was this woman that I used to work with that would eat about six deviled eggs every day at lunch.  The effects about an hour after she came back are obvious; but no one giggled and laughed like children when it happened.  In fact, we all did quite the opposite.  It made us act more professional and busy to avoid the inevitably awkward eye contact.

3) People’s Obsession With All-Things-Bathroom

Every day I check my site statistics to see who has been visiting my website, what they’ve been looking at, and how they’ve gotten here.  Included in the latter part is a list of search terms that led people to my site – search terms I often take amusement from.  More than anything, though, people are coming to my blog by searching things such as “hillbilly on toilet” and “old hillbilly on toilet.”  It’s my fault, really:  I started it all by blogging about hillbillies so often.  They are a popular subject it seems, not to mention a pet peeve of mine.  And to top it off, I have included one photograph of a hillbilly on his toilet outside, only because it was the first thing that came up when I searched in Google Images “hillbilly outside.”  But why are so many people searching this?  It is literally multiple searches, every single day!

When I began to look into it more, though, I learned it is more than just people’s obsession with hillbillies on toilets.  It’s people’s obsession with all people on toilets.  On YouTube, searching “on toilet” brings up literally thousands of responses – some of which are pranks, where a person was secretly filming another on the toilet; others are people just videoing themselves and uploading it (why?!); even one is someone that is making his own homemade talk show, filmed while he sits daily in the John:  “Toilet Talk With Catterton.”

What is it about toilet humor that is … well, so humorous?  Is this really the level of whit we have dumbed ourselves down to?  I’m all for a dirty joke or two once in a while – but this toilet talk is just out of control.  To me, this is just another sign that our culture is becoming stupider and stupider; and that in our culture of excess, we overdo everything – even our toilet humor.  It would be wonderful if I could see a kid’s movie just once that doesn’t include anal jokes; or walk through the mall to get my rings cleaned and pick up my makeup at Sephora without hearing those ridiculous apps echoing throughout the entire shopping center.  I get it:  people think it’s funny.  A lot of people in this world are rednecks, and rednecks love the synthesis of their two favorite things:  jokes and toilets.  I understand completely.  But at this level?  Seriously?