In the midst of the Orlando massacre I almost opted not to post material of my usual nature today, however I decided that Americans must continue their ways in an effort not to let these extremists get the better of us. So just to spite the fuckers that create terror I will post this piece I had written hours before I personally discovered the incident in Florida.

Here we go.

Whether you’re 2 years old or 82 years old, some things never cease to be humorous. Whether you’re a stay at home parent, or the CEO of a blue chip corporation some things never cease to make us laugh. Whether you are in a crowded room,  standing alone with a stranger in an elevator, or sitting at the dinner table with your family some things just simply cannot cease to make us chuckle. One of those things happens to be the timeless and au natural art of passing gas.

Not too long ago my day began just as any other. I awoke early enough to run out for coffees, make the children lunches for school and leave the house in timely fashion to hit the gym before going to work. Just before leaving the gym I felt my belly grumble, yet I didn’t give it much thought at the time. As I was driving the 5 minute route from the gym to the office I passed some gas in the car. It was one of those poppers in which the freed gas actually possessed bubble like properties and edged its way up my crack and begged me to lean forward in order to be able to jump out of the back of my pants. In a hurry the bubble erupted, resulting in an odor that seized any fresh oxygen within the automobile. Of course cracking the window only circulated this toxic monstrosity throughout the Subaru like a tornado in Kansas. I had to laugh to myself as I imagined what looks and comments I would have received had my family been in the car with me. Yes, I laughed to myself.

After arriving at the office I felt the grumbling grow rapidly and realized that the experience in my car had only been the beginning. As little gases continued to leak Chernobyl like toxins, a trainee who sat close to me in the office began to simultaneously cower, cringe and wince with nowhere to hide. I found this rather amusing and commenced working on my aim as I released further radioactive spats of bitter currents his way. I was unable to evoke containment of my laughter and arrogantly even swayed newspaper in order to develop circulatory wind patterns at the distress of my colleagues. I was completely entertained. Funnily enough all of those who were affected by my nuclear seepage could not help but laugh as well, even though they begged for mercy.

The grumbling continued.

Later that day I arrived at home, entered the kitchen and nabbed some bites of dinner whilst chatting with my kids about their day. Suddenly a dark and hot gaseous strain of venom escaped through the thick fabric of my jeans and collided with the loving people I call family. My wife, in horror, asked what was wrong with me, yet with an uncomfortable smirk. My children laughed but also thought it was gross. Even the dog looked at me with concern. And I chuckled feverishly. As I continued to rip platoons of radically horrific napalm bombs my family pleaded with surrender – yet they still in some awkward fashion found it humorous.  At one point my wife could not bear it any longer, and in front of the children proceeded to yell at me “are you still shitting your pants?”, to which my 8 year old son spit out all of his dinner in laughter. He repeated my wife’s words, laughing all the while, “hahahahaha shitting your pants”……. and all of us had to giggle.

The moral of the story is that farts will always be funny, no matter how horrible they may seem. I think of my kids tooting away at inopportune moments, whether it be in a restaurant or other public venues. At the time I may be embarrassed but I do in some form find it funny as well. Sometimes my children let one go from laughing too hard, or when they sneeze so abruptly resulting in a SHART that requires a double check to see if they are in need of fresh underpants. And we don’t get mad- we find it rather amusing. I loved it when the rude lady at the cash register was gifted with a rotten treat my 13 year old left lingering for her to deal with throughout the next few customers- it was awesome. That will teach her to reprimand my children without authority. I bet her nose hairs are still growing back.

Or the waitress who conveyed such lack of patience for a family with kids? My awesome 6 year old practically shit her double chocolate dessert just as we paid the check, and I remember waiting for the smoke alarms to engage. As we were leaving my wife and I looked back and noticed how the mean waitress nearly dropped the plates she collected from our table due to the hard hitting wall of flatulence my darling daughter left behind. Karma is a bitch lady!

How about that elevator ride with a stranger? You hope they get off at the 2nd floor so you can hold it in a touch longer, but they press the 11th floor button and unknowingly enter the danger zone as you drop it like it’s hot and get off at the 3rd floor. You laugh your brains out as you leave this person to experience a ghastly chamber of fumes for 9 floors. I’m laughing right now as I still wonder how that poor lady survived!

Or how about when you are sitting at one of your children’s spring concerts, and one of those lingering demons escapes as you cross your legs. I have a tactic though… I quickly look around as though someone else has just violated my area, causing the other parents around me to suspect each other.  It’s just too funny watching the parents’ faces as they hope they don’t get blamed for the thick smog that has surfaced from my deepest inner vault. And you know what? Although everyone thinks its yucky, they all smile as they band together and pinch their nostrils shut. Farts may cause uncomfortable situations, but they are always funny- at least in retrospect.

“Bottom burps” are a often just reminders that we are still in touch with our our inner child- no pun intended. In some strange order of things, we all find humor in laughing gas.