Category Archives: Farting Is Gross
On the way home from the furniture store tonight, my dad regaled me with more talk about his gastrointestinal issues.
Dad: When I walk by your room, can you hear my farts?
Dad: Do you hear me farting in the bathroom?
Dad: Well, I’m surprised, because I let loose with a good 14 cubic feet of gas in there. It’s like, I’m expelling enough gas to power a nuclear submarine from here to the North Pole. Do you ever fart?
Me: If I do, it smells like roses.
Dad: I swear, I fart enough in a day to power an 18-wheeler from here to Topeka, Kansas.
Me: That’s nice. Can we talk about something else?
Dad: Did you know that people are dying because they don’t have toilet stools? There’s a TV show about it! The Orientals and people in Thailand… they have to poop in a hole in the ground, and then the feces seeps into their water and such. People are dying from this. I DVR’ed it if you wanna watch.
Me: No, thanks.
Dad: You know, dogs lick their own ass so they can get more nutrients. Your cat better not start doing that. I won’t put up with Nasty-Cat eating her own poop. That’s one of the requirements to live in my house — you’ve gotta refrain from eating your own shit.
Me: I guess I made the cut, then.
For over 10 years, I have worried that my dad has some undetected form of cancer. He has a headache? It’s brain cancer. His feet hurt? Foot cancer. My dad has been smoking for 50 years, and I am all but convinced there are tumors growing throughout his blackened lungs as we speak. The thought of no longer having access to my dad’s hugs scares the macaroni & cheese out of me. He is 85% of the reason why I moved home. So I can get those hugs while I can. Not to mention the fact that I need quite a bit more time to be a good daughter* to the ol’ man.
This morning, my dad was being quieter than normal. I left my
daughter cave bedroom and inquired.
Me: What’s wrong? Why aren’t you talking to me?
Dad: I don’t feel well. Let me watch this TV show.
Me: But what’s wrong?
Dad: Tina… I fart every time I take a step and feel like I have to take a shit every three minutes. It’s been like this for the past two weeks, I’m sick of it.
Me: Oh. Why didn’t you bring it up to the doctor?
Dad: I don’t know. Let me watch this TV show.
I go back to my cave and frantically start inputting symptoms on Web MD. Colon cancer. There it is. I grab my laptop and run into the living room. Continue reading
My dad is not a quiet man. Nine minutes out of 10, he is making some sort of needless noise. Sometimes it is warranted — he has painful foot issues and bad knees, so when he gets up off the couch, he usually grunts loudly and mumbles, “Goddamn!” He is also a smoker, so when he coughs, he coughs a lot, some of which sounds a bit phlegmy. He also farts. It is OK that I share this with all five of you, because he tells me about his gastrointestinal issues with a big childish grin on his face. Sometimes I even hear him walking around outside my room and with every step he takes, a small fart will come out. This kind of grosses me out, but I know he can’t really help these things.
On the other hand, if his body isn’t emitting some sort of gas, creak or grunt, he is physically breaking into song or making a senseless noise of sorts. Smacking his lips, making unnatural fart noises, talking to himself, composing stupid songs. His favorite song to sing? “Suck, butt, f*ck, screw, cunnilingus.” Verbatim. I hate this song.