Mooner Farts B Flat; Forgiveness Is A 4-Letter Word

 

So. I’ve had something on my mind for quite a while that has been a bother and a concern. I haven’t said anything about it because I thought it was one of those dealies that would work itself out with time, patience and practice. Like sex.

But it’s been way over a year, I’m out of patience, and practice has perfected absolutely nothing. A little background, if you would.

We Johnsons are farters. My family considers farts and burps to be naturally-occurring human conditions no different from laughter, crying or anger. Farts are considered emotional and expressive reflections of a person’s well-being. Farts can be a sign of stress, distress or happiness. You can fart in anger, in support of another, or as a tease.

I have been a near world class farter since the Third Grade. OK, Grammar Police, why is the word “farter” getting the red squiggle line bullshit from Word? There is something wrong in a world where farter isn’t an actual approved word.

I think I was nine years old when my Gram first taught me to fart a song. It was Chop Stix, and she first taught me the left hand part, and then the right. We would practice together for hours as I helped around the place with the chores.

I just noticed that my grandmother’s name is way too close to the word grammar for my comfort. In fact, if old Teddy Kennedy was still alive he’d likely call her “Grammer”[.]

My mother was a school teacher before she retired and she lived her life as a school marm. Still does for that matter. Every night at the supper table we’d get the question: “Well, children, what did you learn today?” Every… fucking… night we’d get that same question.

Have you ever noticed how some people never learn?

I always let Sister go first, and not just because she was a girl. My little sis is smart and has maybe the driest sense of humor west of the Mississippi. She could answer the question and drop a load of shit at Mother’s feet that wouldn’t start stinking until after dinner. We’d be washing and drying the dishes at the sink and Mother would be sitting at the table with her little paperback book of daily prayers.

I always washed and Sister would dry, and the adults would sit there to the table doing adult stuff. We didn’t have the giant table that sits there now, it was a boxy rectangle of cedar planks that Daddy and Granddad made from trees cleared to make a garden. I gave that table to Dr. Sam I.-Am-Johnson when she moved out because she loved it so much.

OK, my ADHD is firing on all cylinders. If I don’t get my brain puppies back in their box we’ll have ourselves a major distraction.

We’d be at the sink, Sister and I, and Mother would be reading her silly daily prayer book. I hated that book, as Mother would read that crap to me and act like it was God’s words written for me, and to make me miserable. Sister would be nudging me in the side with her elbow, and giggling, dishwater dripping off her hands. After a few minutes we’d hear a, “Huh?” then a gasp followed by a deep sigh, and then, “Sister, you go stand in your bathroom with the Ivory soap in your mouth until I tell you to take it out.”

Sister and I both have a thing for Ivory soap. I think that’s why I like menudo so much.

This one night Mother asks what I had learned that day, and so Gram and I farted a Chop Stix duet. It was only slightly out of tune and we kept a pretty good rhythm together. I eventually learned to be a pretty good fart singer. Not nearly as good as those guys on the Howard Stern Show—I can’t do Led Zepplin or The Star Spangled Banner—but I could do a mean Poppa’s Got A Brand New Bag, You Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hound Dog and one of J.P. Sousa’s marches. I don’t remember the name now, but one of the popular ones.

Holy shit am I scattered. What I’m trying to bitch about is that I have lost all of my farting skills. The loss is a side effect of the lower peritoneal infection I had, and the treatments and operations required to rid me of it. Ever since I had my ass operation just over a year ago, my farts all fall flat on their faces. It’s very sad.

When I complained last night, Gram said to me, she said, “Oh quit cher bitchin’, Mooner. At least ya ain’t shittin’ in one a them Costco bags like old Mr. Hancock over to tha church. Tha air never does clear around that man.”

She was, of course, right, I don’t need colostomy bags. But I can’t even fart Mary Had A Little Lamb anymore. I can only fart a single, B-Flat note that’s as interesting as it sounds. And I have to be very careful when I crank one loose because I can usually keep my gas in, but I can’t control the stopping once started. Whatever gas I have will escape when the valve is opened. I’m actually quite distressed over this.

I went to see Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson this afternoon to talk to her about my trip. I started the conversation talking about my farting issues and the next thing I know, she’s got me considering forgiving the man who raped me as a child. My ex-wife and therapist can be such a bitch. She said to me, she said, “How can you forgive the man who murdered your grandmother for what he did and not forgive the man who molested you?”

“Easy,” I said, “the poor guy who killed Mother’s mother was crazy. He couldn’t help himself.”

“So…?” Dr. Strange Cure drawled the question like she was saying the longest word in the English language. What the hell is that word?

“Wait a fucking minute. Are you telling me it’s the same dealie? Are you saying that the Boy Scout leader who raped me couldn’t help it?”

I fucking hate psycho therapy. I’m starting to think that today’s addled brain farts are due to me considering Sammie’s question. Could that asshole have prevented himself from doing what he did to me? Could it be that he was raped himself and therefore had the predisposition to do it to me?

Son.. of… a… BITCH! I don’t WANT TO FOR-FUCKING-GIVE him.

Fuck, fuck and fuckeldy-fuck! I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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5 Responses to “Mooner Farts B Flat; Forgiveness Is A 4-Letter Word”

  1. There is NO excuse for a victim of abuse perpetrating the same abuse on another person. I used to work with juvenile sex offenders and they’d always try to sell that line, “Well, it happened to me…that’s why I did it….” And I would always answer back with, “No. WRONG ANSWER. There are plenty of people who are abused who CHOOSE to never enact that same violence on another person. You did it because you CHOSE to do it.” No such that as “couldn’t help it.” That right there is the biggest load of horse shit on earth. That’s all I have to say about that.

  2. bj says:

    B-Flat, huh? same note as the accursed vuvuzela! HEY! You … gotta … Pooh-Pooh-Zela! or …. A Do-Do-Zela … or…..
    one o’ these days I’ma get enuff courage to eat me summa that menudo stuff. S’bout the same thing as a McRib is made outta … http://consumerist.com/2011/11/mcrib-pork-supplier-hit-with-sec-filed-complaint-over-alleged-pig-abuse.html

    I didn’t get raped until I was 13…. she was 16 … knew whut she wanted … and how to get it! I ain’t been the same neither …. thowed away all my baseball cards, comic books, marbles and shit … and suddenly knew whut i wanted to do for the rest of my natural existence …… bet I didn’t change her life nearly that much ….

  3. Reck. This is why I love you. I fully agree about needing to break the repeat-offender chain.

    BJ. Oh that my rapist was vagina-complete and lacking the heavy beard. I think If I had it to do over again, I’d choose to be raped by my French teacher. Ooo-la-la!OK, somehow this doesn’t seem appropriate. But who really gives a shit?

  4. Squatlo says:

    I just feel left out completely. I was an altar boy at the age of ten. You’d think someone would see that angelic face of mine and think, “Hey, that little shit needs molesting!” But NO! I was not an Altered Boy, and now all of them that were are getting royalty checks from the Vatican. Dammit.

    My sisters’ older friends didn’t have their way with me, either, despite all of my fantasies and daydreams that I’d be a sex slave of some Vassar-scholarship babe who hung around with my sister. Again, dammit.

    In fact, even the physical child abuse thing Reck gets so wired up about didn’t happen to me either. My dad whacked my butt a time or two (when I definitely needed it, and once when I was completely and absolutely innocent of the accusation) but no one ever took a belt to me or beat me with a hard heeled shoe.

    No… my abuse has mostly been self-inflicted. Self-abuse, they called it. “You’re gonna go blind if you keep doing that!”
    Damn… they were right!

  5. admin says:

    Squat. Sounds like you had a very uneventful childhood. Boo-fucking hoo.

    But you will go blind. See what I mean?

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