A couple of years ago I was living with my ex-boyfriend in Australia. I mean, he wasn't my ex at the time, but he is now. Anyway. This was a very relaxed, responsibility-free time in which we had little else to do but loll about on the beach, play pool, watch "The Simpsons," and consume a small ocean of beers. We never fought, except when we were both sauced out of our minds... so the next day neither of us would have the slightest clue what we'd fought about the night before. We decided if neither of us remembered, it didn't really happen.
Apart from all the lolling and drinking and fun-having, a major contributing factor to my contentment with this boyfriend was our shared point of view toward bodily functions, namely farting. I realize I am among a small percentage of women when I say this, but I am pro-fart. Farts make me laugh -- my farts, your farts, dog farts -- they are all funny to me. You can fart in front of me; I won't be grossed out. Yeah, I'll say, "Ewwww!" but I'll say it laughing. And if you are able to produce a particularly loud, or musical, or well-timed fart, my eyes will grow wide with awe and I will say, "Woooow" as I discover a newfound respect for you.
Not only were my ex's outbursts of the bowels funny to me, but he also found my flatulence charming. It was an integral part of our courtship, and one of the things I remember most fondly about him. And it's a damn good thing, because we could have made a quesadilla the size of Brazil with all the cheese we were cutting. A steady diet of barley, hops, and malt will do that to you.
One particularly lazy Sunday morning (and by morning I mean 1pm or so), we were in the kitchen discussing what we should make for naked brunch. Suddenly, amidst discussion on the merits of fried versus scrambled, my being let loose a triumphant, trumpeting, window-rattling sonic boom of a fart. The reverb is still traveling across the Indian Ocean, I'm sure of it.
My ex picked himself up off the floor, his hair disheveled by the gale force wind. Feeling his manhood threatened to the point of extinction, he had no choice but to retaliate with whatever fury his inner recesses could muster.
It was a fart-off... to the death.
He braced himself with both hands on the kitchen counter, slightly bent at the knees, his stance just a little bit wide. A look of intense concentration overcame him, and I imagine that the face of a suicide bomber, about to die for what he believes in, must look much the same. With great effort, he squeeked out a mediocre (at best) poot... but the effort was just a little too much. Out onto the kitchen floor lept the tiniest, most cheerful little turd you have ever seen.
I went absolutely blind with laughter. Even now I just had to take a minute to recover from a fit of spastic giggles.
Winner, and still champ: Yours Truly
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