The Zen Art of Flatulence

There are many elements of human existence that seem to have "built in" rules.  Some how, there is a basic human understanding that some things are simply done certain ways.   People should not be underwater and fish should not be on land would be a good example.  The same rule would apply to people and high altitudes without the benefit of land underneath. Other basic rules include "Rocks are not tasty" and "Blood should be on the inside of the body."

Similarly, cosmic harmony insures most cultures discover the great truth of the 10 Second Rule (variations include the 30 Second Rule, the 10 Minute Rule, and Don't Waste That Food You Ungrateful Brat Eat It Now) as well as the ill-advised nature of speaking aloud your good fortune: "Knock On Wood," "Salt Over the Shoulder," or as with the Bushmen of Africa, "Wail, Wail, Now We Will All Starve." (No lie, look it up.)

There is an entire world of rules, however, that favor only the male of our species.  I speak of the Zen Art of Flatulence.  Growing up female in a predominately female house, I, of course, had no knowledge of this hidden realm.  I was familiar with the bodily function, but had been properly taught by my mother and grandmothers that this was an act of shame which must be hidden and denied, even unto death. 

With great dismay and abhorrence, I discovered shortly after my marriage that men do not take the same approach, although some subspecies are correctly taught that this is an act solely experienced by men.  Women Do Not Fart. (I wish.) Men Do.  Boy Howdy Do They.

Not only do men fart, there appears to be an entire underworld of farting rules and farting etiquette quite foreign to women.  My research thus far has pieced together these hypothesized constructs on the nature of male flatulence:

1.  The older the man, the greater the leniency given to place ownership on the fart.  Young boys may only blame other young boys, but an old man can blame the dog, a spider, the chair, or any odd weather pattern currently passing by.

2.  If there is no possibility of blaming the fart on someone/thing else, one must call out "Safety."  If one does not do this, all other males in the room are free to smack the offender.  Generally, the next closest male does this.  My research has not yet discovered the nature of the ascendent hierarchy involved in determining who the "Smacker" will be, but there is some evidence indicating that this has something to do with the percentage of odor received in the Smacker's nostrils.  Just a guess though.

3.  If the Farter does not say "Safety" BEFORE another nearby male smells the offense, the one smelling the fart can then call out "Doorknob."  The farter then must rush to touch a doorknob as quickly as possible.  All males are free to punch the farter as many times as possible until the doorknob has been touched.

4.  Rules 2 & 3 are invalid in the case of excessive incidences of farting or extreme pungency of a particular fart.  All males are free to punch without ceasing in these cases, although often the largest and most dominant male will take it upon himself to enact the punching.

5.  Seriously.  You think I'm kidding but I'm not.

6.  Punching Mom under any of said conditions is a certain Death Wish. Mom DOES NOT FART.  Any evidence is to be denied and ignored.  Any suggestion that such an event might have even possibly crossed your mind is to risk Banishment To Room. 

7.  Repeat Rule 5, but with regard to the highly suicidal notion of Punching Mom After (nonexistent) Fart.

Most baffling to my female mind is that it has taken me the better part of 19 years to understand these rules.  My youngest boy, age 7, seemed to know them right about the same time he mastered the art of drooling.  This leads to the next part of my scientific query: Is there a genetic component to male toots?

I have, on many occasions, witnessed my sons farting at will and on command.  This would seem to fly in the face of my personal experience.  You all know what I mean.  You are in a meeting.  Everyone is listening with respectful and rapt attention (read: sleeping with their eyes open) to the boss explain the brilliance of his/her newest plan of success.  You suddenly become aware that gurgling is happening.  The rumbling and roiling.  IT is going to happen.  You shift position, squeeze this and that, adjust hither and yon.  But there is no stopping IT.  IT is inevitable and as gaseous as your promotion opportunities have just become.

And yet, AND YET my sons can control this.  Nay, not only control it, but USE it as a weapon and a tool.  I have seen, well no, not seen, but heard and smelled farts perfectly controlled and detonated: as a response to a question, while sitting on a younger brother's head, as part of a song (the chorus, and thus repeated both in time and on tune), as part of a video game attack, as the ending punctuation of a sentence, for the purpose of being first in line for cake, and as a means of removing everyone else from the prime couch "spot."

I assert, there is an Art to the Fart.  And women just don't got it.  THANK GOODNESS.

(Plllbbtttthhh.)  Excuse me.