In my mother’s house, F.A.R.T. was and still is consider a four letter profanity. That’s right. It’s right up there with some other pretty naughty words you’d never want my mother to catch you saying. It’s crass, uncouth and as offensive as the foul odor it produces. In my house it’s much the same. We don’t use that word- we say fluff or toot- and we say them often. Except in this circumstance-
Last year at Christmas time, my husband and I had a shopping date. It was our mission to help Santa along with some purchases for our darling little Christmas angels. So we met at the greatest show on earth- Walmart- and began to peruse the aisles for possible items to include on Santa’s list.
I came upon one such item that I deemed worthy of the list- a must have- by my standards. This item is called a Fart Gun from the movie Despicable Me (if you haven’t seen it, go rent it and watch it tonight, seriously). I picked the hilariously offensive toy up off the shelf, pointed it at my husband and pulled the trigger. An obnoxiously loud anthem of rips, pops, toots and other flatulent sounding noises spilled forth from its speaker-like barrel. A giggle rose from my chest as I pulled the trigger again in response to his “Really?” raised eyebrow comment.
Feigning disgust (because he thought it was really funny too) he rolled his eyes and told me to “Knock it off.” This only prompted me to continue to do it more. The two glasses of wine I consumed prior to our shopping adventure only added to the allure of this riotously funny gadget and before I knew it, I was chasing my husband up and down the aisles, pulling the trigger repeatedly.
The two of us got laughing so hard, tears rolled down our foolish faces as we gasped for breath- our sides aching from laughter. By the conclusion of the shopping trip, we had placed two Fart Gun’s in the cart. What’s the good of only having one, right? You can’t have a fart war with only one gun.
Yesterday, I was busy working on a home improvement project as the kids played in the other room. I was distracted, focusing on my task, but kept hearing the word “poop” fly out of their (Kian and Kelan) mouths. Moments later, I heard the Fart Gun’s go off in rapid succession followed by their hysterical laughter. And I do mean- hysterical. Even as I write this, I’m laughing, remembering their gut wrenching laughter. It was contagious.
This continued for a few minutes and then there was silence. Engrossed in what I was doing, I barely noticed movement behind me. In the corner of my eye, I saw Kian sprint from the room. Approximately thirty seconds later, the Fart Gun went off directly behind me on the floor. Sidesplitting laughter followed from around the corner where the two brothers sat in cahoots.
“Hahahahahahah! Gotcha’ mom! Hahahaha, I set it on auto fart!” Kian proclaimed proudly as he emerged from behind the corner.
“Kian! Don’t say fart, say fluff.” Kelan corrected, following his brother out from behind their post.
Trying to instill a little decorum, I said “Boy’s that’s fresh. Let’s put it up for a while.” But my request fell upon deaf ears as they skipped into the other room, guns a blazin’.
Sighing a little over my halfhearted attempt to restore some order and propriety; I let them run amuck, making obscene flatus noises. I couldn’t blame them really; I had been doing the same thing months before in Walmart. After all, Kelan did correct the uncouth vocabulary and if anyone understands the allure of the Fart Gun, it’s me.
You have to admit- there is something funny about flatulence. At least after two glasses of chardonnay.