Fart Jokes

by Jonathan Pyner

 

I sit in the office at work. My eyes droop at this point in the night, just finishing a double shift at the restaurant. I’m waiting for the manager, my Dad who got me the job, to finish my report for the night, when I hear him fart a room-vibrating trumpet note, just as my co-worker Ashley walks in. Now, My surprise didn’t come only from his fart. It was more about the combination of looks on their faces as the situation developed. Ashley, with a horrified o face, and my dad, maintaining a straight, guiltless gaze at the report, continuing with his work as if he didn’t just sing a chorus from his ass.



Hearing my Dad fart was a pretty big part of growing up for me. His farts were something I couldn’t ignore. They always had a variety of tones and pitches: some you could feel vibrate the floor, some that sounded like deflating balloons, some that were scentless, and some that smelled like baboons. I expected a green tint in the air after some, the ones that made me think I would faint, or sat anxiously awaiting catafter those loud, creaky ones a toxic gas that never came. It eventually became a science. It always began with a surprised, “AHHHHHHH,” followed by a hand over my nose and mouth as if that would equate to a gas mask. But I figured out a pattern in my dad’s farts. The louder, the safer, which is ironic because those were the ones he got the most criticism for, to which he always had a rebuttal. “David was that you? That’s just disgusting.” “Whoever smelt it dealt it.” He always had these different sayings for farts. When he really wanted to teach me a lesson, he would sit me down, look me straight in the eyes and say, “Jon, It’s better to fart and bear the shame, than to hold it in and bear the pain.” Now, the worst types, as I’m sure you have already anticipated, were the unanticipated ones. The ones when I was sitting in the car, driving to the Giants game, an innocent eight-year-old, boxed in by four closed windows while an unsuspecting rise in temperature submerge my face, and the overwhelming pressure of those monstrous behemoth farts closing in on me. And that was back when cars still had manual window rollers. It wasn’t like I could use any body part to push a button to roll the window down. No, I had to take one of my precious gas mask hands to rush that window lever around for what seemed like 100 revolutions. That was the problem with those things. It always seemed like it took so much more time and energy to roll the window down than it actually did. On hot days I would stare at it for minutes, having a debate in my mind as to whether it was worth the effort to get a breeze in the car. But my dad’s farts were unequivocal to even 100 degree weather. There was no debate, it was just getting up the courage to take one of my hands away from my mouth. And he would never take the time to roll his own window down. As I struggled to get fresh air into the car he would bask in the glory of SBD- Silent But Deadly. “Everyone loves their own stench,” he would say.
 


So when I sat across from him in that office, waiting for him to finish my report, I shouldn’t have been surprised. He’s farted in front of me for my entire life. I guess now he’s branching out and giving others the experience of his scent. Today, there were hints of horse radish and garlic.



Thinking back on it though, I’m glad I suffered being hot boxed by my dad’s farts growing up. Well, maybe not that part of it. Rather, I’m glad he shared his wisdom with me. Because those sayings all have deep life meanings that don’t pertain to just farts. “Everyone loves their own stench” encouraged me to love myself, no matter what others smell in me; “Whoever smelt it dealt it” obviously stresses for a person to carefully observe oneself before criticizing another; and the most frequent “Better to fart and bear the shame, than to hold it in and bear the pain,” another push to be completely, genuinely, unapologetically myself, to let my farts out despite the impoliteness, to go ahead and relieve myself no matter who’s listening. So thank you, Dad, for teaching me such valuable life lessons.
 
Jonathan Pyner eats his oatmeal on mountaintops, and always mixes in some goat’s milk and cheese.