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It's A Gas

I can’t say that this is a new revelation because I’ve known it for most of my life, but I’ve only just now gotten around to sufficiently dissecting the subject in my own mind and to my own satisfaction to put it down as a matter of record. So here goes…


Actually, I LOVE farting. Even more than picking my nose. Picking one’s nose, except to a bold select few, is always a covert act. You see, I only pick when the blowing option has been exhausted. That being said, I always examine my harvest with a certain morbid fascination. I mean, the endless variety of sizes, hues and textures never fails to interest me for some reason. At times I’ve actually been so amazed that such things can emerge from my nose that I’ve had to fight the urge to share the wonder of it with my fellows. And of course there’s the inconvenient fact that nose-picking must be followed up by hand-washing. Maybe not immediatley but certainly before food handling or extracting food particles from your teeth. Then there’s the requiste tissue or some such. I never choose the pants option. Of course there are those who are perfectly comfortable with the act of popping a fresh-picked ginder right into their mouth. I am not one of those.

But I digress.

Farting requires no tools or supplemental aids and is just plain fun. Not to mention how good it feels. Sometimes when you’re all backed up with gas and you bark a good one, man, that feeling like you’re Underdog being packed away for next year’s Thanksgiving day parade is almost orgasmic. And I’ll bet we’ve all had an itchy anus in public (like maybe you showered too quick and left some soap residue there) and we are loathe to relieve it with the use of our unique God-given opposable thumb, being that we’re in public, mind you. Well, a properly rendered fart of just the right seismic timbre can sometimes take care of that.

Neither do I mind sharing (in proper company, of course) with my fellows. My kids can attest to the undeniable connection between forefinger and sphincter. Myriad freinds of mine have actually awarded me with applause and kudos at the manifestation of a particularly voluminous flatulence of laudable duration, to which I must confess a certain swelling of pride.

And tones…well, now that requires a dissertation all it’s own. Suffice it to say that I myself can claim tones of piccolo to French horn right on down to bassoon and sousaphone; a range that must span at least four octaves. But my favorite, for stealth and self-satisfaction alone is the all too infamous SBD. Yes, I’m proud to say that I’ve cut room clearing SBD’s that would have only been remedied by the patient ministrations of a toxic clean-up crew.

The dichotomous truth about farts that I find so fascinating is that everyone else’s stink while mine are just fine. In fact, my garlic fart is downright fragrant and my bazil fart is pleasantly herbal, my egg fart, not so much.

So there you have it. Life is filled with a noisy, noisome cacophany of gas expulsion that, according to Al Gore, is effecting the ecology sufficiently to warrant being taxed for it. If he reads this I’ll never come flush with the government.

When all is said and done, life’s a gas, isn’t it?


Wet farts just suck!

It's A Gas

George Yesthal

Brodheadsville, United States

  • Artist
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Something that I felt the urgent need to share.

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