No Butts About It

Well, David had learned and said the “F” word. It was inevitable. Every boy loves to say it. It makes them feel powerful and just a little naughty. They know it’s not nice to say, so say it they will. And do it, too…

Wait a second. You probably thought I was talking about the big one…the “F Bomb.” No, we’re not there yet. This is the little one: a bomb of sorts, but more like a firecracker. Yes, “fart” is now a part of David’s ever-growing vocabulary. The big surprise here is that it was NANCY who taught it to him, and taught him that it’s a little bit funny. So, now we’re on the slippery slope to purposeful farting, requests for fingers to be pulled, fart jokes, attempts to emulate real farts through either the heels of the hands on the mouth technique or the far more mysterious (yet apparently more satisfying, annoying, and addictive) hand in the underarm technique (one I never could master), and, of course, endless ridicule of anyone else who dares to pass wind in his presence. God help us all.

And with that in mind, I give you this little bit of poetry from the short-lived CBS animation show, “Creature Comforts.” The show was produced by the same folks who did the original “Creature Comforts” and then went on to “Wallace and Gromit” fame.



Perhaps the fact that, due to TWO people wearing diapers in the family, our house has some “dark notes” at all times explains why I find this so funny. Or perhaps it’s the utter deflation of the pretension behind the real voices. In any case, I just about soiled myself laughing at this. And, yes, despite the fact that I am on the verge of turning 41, I am a child when it comes to potty humor.

Speaking of the potty, my softball team is in the toilet. I’m on a new co-ed team now and we got beat 10-0 last night in our first game. It was so bad that we only got 2 hits: a single by our left fielder, who was then forced out at second on the way to a double-play, and a double that I hit and was then thrown out trying to stretch it into a triple. It was quite sad, actually. As I rounded second, I had the thought that triples just aren’t my thing (see previous post regarding lack of wheels on the basepaths). But this one went to the wall in right-center, and it’s softball. So a triple it shall be! Just as that thought crossed my mind, I saw a small round shadow on the ground over the right shoulder of my own lumbering shadow. Nah. Couldn’t be. Oh yes it was. One hop to the third-base woman, knee high and two steps ahead of me. A perfect throw. There was nothing I could do but groan and try to avoid the tag. No such luck. I slunk back to the dugout.

Of course, the team we were playing was last year’s champs. The men are all built like wide-receivers: lanky, fast, and strong. They get to every ball, have shotguns for arms (with accuracy to match) and hit the ball a mile. The women on their team were all Indiana State softball players as far as I could tell. Our team is comprised of aging professors and social workers. The worst part about the game, though, wasn’t losing. It was the arrogance of this other team – throwing people out at first from the outfield, dropping grounders and line drives just to make close plays, and talking to each other as if the our team wasn’t even there (which, in some ways, we weren’t). It’s pretty clear to me that our team will be bringing up the rear, so to speak. But the league is supposed to be fun. So, to them, I raise the heels of my hands to my mouth, apply pressure, and blow.

Maybe in a couple of years, I’ll have David teach me that underarm thing, once he inevitably figures it out. Of course, by then, he’ll likely be on to bigger and better offenses.