So. Something has been happening to me over the last several months, and this particular something has had a quite unsettling effect on my countenances. The affected countenances run the gamut of a person’s varied composures and tolerances from one end to the other.
OK, stop. That first paragraph of this morning’s writings might be one of the most perfect strings of words I’ve ever produced. If I got it right from the grammatical perspectives, that is one amazing paragraph of human communication as related to the human condition. If I effected proper usages and affects—and you, as a reader, properly interpreted my meanings—then we, together, have had a mutual human enlightenment.
I’m finding mutual human enlightenments between people engaged in interpersonal relationships as difficult to encounter as actual apologies.
Take, for example, memories. I can remember with great clarity every aspect of certain childhood memories, yet can’t remember shit about six minutes ago. As, for example, Big George Martin, or “BGM” as everyone but his wife called him. BGM was my granddaddy’s best buddy from their youth, and a man of massive appetites. BGM lived his life to the fullest in every possible way—food, drink, information, adventure, friends and life in general were all consumed by him in gluttonous quantities.
BGM was that jolly old man we all knew as a child. I think everyone had a man or woman like BGM who populated our lives in youth. Always happy, unafraid of anything and happy for the encounters, and not a single bone of shyness. Old BGM could fart the gaseous swill that can only come from the residuals of a dozen-and-a-half of Mrs. Garcia’s sweet bean tamales—a fart that would empty a church full of cripples at an Ernest Angley Miracles Concert—a feat accomplished when The Right Reverend Angley visited Austin’s Capital City Church of God back to the early 1970’s.
And for those of you donning the uniform of the Appropriateness Nazis, back to the 1970’s we called handicapped persons cripples, and did so without bigotry or insensitivity.
The smell of those farts moved like the unhinging of the lid on a crate full of cockroaches and dropping them dead center of the second row on the cushioned seat at the old Church of God. The balled mass of ten-thousand crustaceanous rats would roil for a second and then scream off in every direction and crawling all over everyfuckingthing. Roaches in your clothes and hair and all up in your face. Then you’d walk a hundred feet from the drop site to shake all the roaches off, inspect yourself carefully to find no residuals, and walk out to the car only to have a half dozen jump from your hair and into the upholstery.
And before the dreaded AD-and-HD drag us so deep into the swampy waters of my thoughts, it was not Streaker Jones and me (myself?) who dropped the crate of cockroaches in the auditorium of William B. Travis Junior High School just after the second act of Mrs. Browningwell’s Ninth Grade Health Education play she entitled, “Good Christian Girls Don’t Do It!”
Maybe it was just the horrible memories of those nasty, gassy things, but I could sometimes smell the BGM fart odor hours, days later. Sometimes a dish would be cooking in the kitchen days later that would contain a whiff of some small essence of BGM’s fart, and I’d skip my dinner.
I don’t skip many dinners.
“Oh, my… heh-heh-heh,” old BGM would laugh after one of those farts. “Sorry, ladies, that ‘un just creeped out on me. Any a y’all need ya a tissue?”
Those creeper farts were incredible. I can still vividly remember the smell so strong you’d consider puking, the eye-stinging pungencies. My mother would swear she needed a shower after she was in the room when BGM farted.
Old BGM swore that those nasty-ass farts had a life of their own—that he never knew when they were going to debut or what they were going to smell like. “Ain’t ate nuttin but oatmeal an’ raisins all week, children. Mrs. Martin, she’s got old George onna diet.”
“Nuttin bout boiled oats inna smell a that rascal,” BGM once told us at a picnic. “Asides, them suckers jump right on out—give a a man not the warning once.”
As I’m running out of time and must head to work, let me summarize the intentions of this bloggie posting. The evolutions that are my personal aging processes have decided to include my morphing into “Old Stinky Fart Guy”. I’m becoming Big George Martin.
“Run, everybody,” has become the two-word combination most often shouted from my lips. And when I say, “Everybody,” I also mean me, myownself. My old geezer farts are so stinky even I can’t stand them. I used to have farts with olfactory complexities that would rival those of a fine wine. These fuckers cause temporary blindness.
I farted inside my truck yesterday afternoon at just before 3:30 pm—an effort aimed to leave the offensive gas behind and not unleash it on the crowd standing to get food from the food pantry next to my office. I farted and then jumped from the truck and slammed the door, and flapped the tail of my shirt on my way to my office. Safely inside, there was but a trace of odor left on my hand that waved the shirttails.
At 4:45, my coworker and I called it a day and were discussing a project we were contemplating. I unlocked the truck, opened the door and sat backwards into the truck seat still facing the other man. “OK,” I said, “we’ll discuss… Arrrrrrg!!!”
I jumped from the truck and ran his way. “Holy fucking shit!” I cried. “I’ve become Old Stinky Fart Guy!”
I’m hoping to develop an immunity to my new self quickly. I’m thinking that these farts might be a particularly effective weapon at the poker table. If I can learn to sit through the pungent fog, I’ll have the best bluff move in the game.
“I’m all-in… Frrrrrrrrrrt!”
Ugh. It’s a bitch growing old. And fuck Walmart!