Raising a stink - Farting is family

I have the maturity of a 12 year old boy. I love farts. I think poop is funny. I think that when monkeys throw poop at each other, it's hilarious. I could sit at the zoo watching them eat each other's nits and fling poop for hours. Judge me. I don't have time to reply, because I already told you, I'm dealing with some serious personal shit right now. Pun intended.

Please enjoy this post about how farting IS family, written guest blogger, Walter Michka a fellow writer on Chicagonow!

Raising a stink
Walter Michka of Open Heart

My wife and I have four kids. And no, I have no idea what the hell we were thinking. We could’ve stopped at two, lots of people do. Or go to three, the new two. But we kept going. We’re not Mormons or Catholic; we’re just fucking nuts. Our first was a girl. The next three were boys, which means basically, we have a house pretty much full of farts.

Ever since my sons grew into their teens, there seems to be a never-ending supply of noxious fumes joyfully emanating from their asses. They go through their day nestled in their own, personal brown clouds, like that ring around the city you can see when you’re landing at O’Hare. And no, they didn’t get this flatulent preoccupation from me. It wasn’t handed down like some proud guy tradition. I don’t fart with any regularity, not with pride.

I come from a family of four kids, too (my wife from a family of six) so I was used to the head count. But I was raised with three sisters. I grew up around bras and menstrual periods. Hell, you can send me into Walgreen’s to buy tampons or any other kind of girly shit and I wouldn’t flinch. I even keep the toilet seat down! I know the sister dynamic. But I’m completely baffled by brothers.

Look, I get it; everyone gets gassy once in a while. I’m sure even Kate Middleton’s precious butthole lets loose with the occasional royal toot. But my little fartbags are overcome with a genuine sense of accomplishment whenever they let one rip. They’ll even stop for a second after a poot and take a whiff, enjoying it like a fine wine.

Someone gave me a CD for Christmas as a joke one year called Pull My Finger, 98 tracks of fart sounds that the boys laughed at for hours. Long phpptts, wet ones, high-pitched ones.

My two youngest took it to a new level when they started saving their farts in Hellman’s jars. Like how some people put up strawberry preserves for the winter, only different. They’d push an old mayonnaise jar against their butt cheeks, let loose, then screw the lid on real fast. They’d keep their captured prize on their bedside table for a while then open ‘er up and do a little huffin’: “Eew, yeah! Whew!”

When they’re not fixated on farts, they’re preoccupied with poop. Our dinner conversations inevitably turn to shit. Literally. We’re continually privy to the stats of their latest dumps: length, girth, flushability. Son #2 even snapped a picture of one of his record-breaking turds. It’s still on the computer, maybe I can make it next year’s Christmas card.

Oh well, you know what they say? Boys will be… fascinated with whatever’s coming out of their ass.

You can find Walter's blog here on Chicagonow - Open Heart
And his website Something's Wrong with Wally is good shit too!
Buy his fucking book here - Thought Nuggets
Follow him on Twitter at @waltwriter

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