Wow, Lovelies … How’s THAT for an opening title?
And where the heck have I been all these months; right? Right! I was writing to a couple of friends today of how 2011 has stacked-up, thus far. I must say that, overall, it’s been incredible.
“Yeah, yeah … but get to the good stuff,” I hear you impatiently panting. HOW are farts and relationships connected? If any of you have been in a relationship (especially a long term one) you’ll know this one!
I was watching the delightful romantic comedy “Love And Other Disasters”, starring the beautiful late Brittany Murphy. When who appears as a therapist but none other than the absolutely fabulous Vicar, herself, Dawn French! I Dawn French — not the least for her impeccable timing:
Therapist: Relationships are best measured by farting.
Peter Simon: Excuse me?
Therapist: The stages of a relationship can be defined by farting. Stage one is the conspiracy of silence. This is a fantasy period where both parties pretend that they have no bodily waste. This illusion is very quickly shattered by that first shy, “Ooh, did you fart,” followed by the sheepish admission of truth. This heralds a period of deeper intimacy. A period I like to call the “Fart Honeymoon”, where both parties find each other’s gas just the cutest thing in the world. But, of course, no honeymoon can last forever. And so we reach the critical fork in the fart. Either the fart loses its power to amuse and embarrass thereby signifying true love, or else it begins to annoy and disgust, thereby symbolizing all that is blocked and rancid in the formerly beloved. Do you see what I’m getting at?
“But why, Shawn, O Ye Goddess of Decorum, are you imparting farting dating data,” I can hear your puzzled, nonplussed pestering.
I’ll tell you why — “It” happened. That’s right, Lovelies, I farted in front of my beloved. Not only did I fart in front of him — I farted ON him … or his leg to be exact. And this wasn’t a tiny, titilating toot. Oh no … I farted with a force so strong that it sounded as if my arse was laughing — at me, I’m quite sure.
I lost it … completely. I could NOT quit laughing — part nerves, part embarrassment (an extreme rarity, as most of you know), part awe at the sheer volume of air I had inside of me.
When I tried moving to go to the loo and finish my Fart Freedom Movement, I found that I couldn’t move without hiccarting. (This is when your arse sounds as if it’s alternately burping and hiccuping.)
I simply gave up and into the gales of laughter and gas emanating from my body. Both the Rogue Pirate and I were fit to be tied … *oooh — tied … bright shiny — wait – focus* It was a craptacular moment!
So now I wait … Will there be eternal farts and hearts or the slippery slide into Snarksville and the potential of sharts? I don’t know. I can, however, report that life is smelling like roses at the moment — just like my farts.
Until next time … Keep smiling (and mind the peppers)!
Waiting to exhale … I remain yours,