The Letter 'F' - Part 1

There's this blog game whereby somebody "tags" another person to write about ten things beginning with a certain letter. Well, it has happened to me. Andrea, after some deliberation and for reasons unknown to me, was kind enough to confer on me the letter 'F'. So here is the first in a series.

1. Fart
Matthew and Shaula, like most kids, are fascinated by flatulence. Last weekend, for instance, I let the tape run on the camcorder and gave Matthew free rein to talk about anything. The topic he chose was "peeing and pooing." Shaula piped in with her take on the matter.

"Farting means that your butt can talk," concluded Matthew.

Matthew also adds that his paternal grandmother laughs whenever she lets loose. We are talking about a seventy year-old lady here. I have no desire to establish the veracity of this claim.

***

About two years ago Shaula wanted to buy a gag toy from a dollar store. For some reason I couldn't remember the right word for it, so I asked a female clerk whether they had any "fart bags" in stock. She looked at me funny and pointed to the shelf with the Whoopee Cushions, they came in small and large. (I attribute my poor memory to my then-recent stroke.)

***

I recently saw a Science World billboard with words to the effect that people fart on average 14 times daily. This means that whenever your co-worker or boss gets up from his or her desk, quite often it's for no other reason than to let that warm little bubble see the light of day. Admittedly, this is done in conjunction with Number 2, and less frequently, Number 1.

***

I've met a few respectable people, more stranger than friend (like the chap at the Space Centre), who aren't shy about letting her rip in mid-conversation: "The transit of the 9th magnitude star ... BLEE-ET-ET ... is visible from Vancouver." It does make me a little uncomfortable, but I respect their honesty and stance.

***

I have it on good authority that it's a hassle farting at the Metrotown branch of the Burnaby Public Library. If you're anywhere on the second floor—and one can never know for certain whether the culminating gas is going to rush out as a silent stream or sound like a '76 Chevy Monza firing on three cylinders, so one has to play it safe—you have to trek all the way downstairs to the restrooms. It's not easy to blame somebody else in the quiet of the stacks.

***

Someone I know once blew a real stinker just before getting off the elevator. When he exited, and to his dismay, two people got on—two hot-looking women, okay they were young UBC students. The elevator doors closed behind him.

***

A friend of mine had observing time at the Canada-France-Hawaii Telescope atop 13,796 feet (4,205 m) Mauna Kea. On his spare time he decided to hike up to the summit from a much lower elevation, but only after consuming a can of soda pop. He recommends against doing this unless you are prepared for some of the most explosive and sustained farts humanly possible.