Thursday, March 2

day 10681: tee hee… i farb-dud*…

Burp me the alphabet and I would be suitably impressed if you get past “T”. Tell me about the smell, colour, and texture of your daily offerings to the Porcelain God, and I will cover my ears and sing out “Tra-la-la-I’m-not-listening.” Fart at me or even near me, and I will scream for mercy and go running for the hills.

Yes, I AM that sensitive**.

So, when once upon a time, I heard stories of a Kentucky climbing trip that involved fire and huge amounts of passed gas, I should have clued in. Boys on trips without their girlfriends or wives = bad news. Bring a gas mask. And some matches.

Maybe it’s something they ate, or maybe they delighted in being away from respectable civilization and the freedom went to their brains… maybe it was the beans or maybe it was the magic sauce from the truckstop… I don’t know, but let me just tell you one thing…

Yuge can clear a room and has no qualms doing it.

*Backstory: Da was your typical run-of-the-mill asian immigrant who came to Canada for a decent university education. He studied hard, lost his accent, went on to bigger and better things, but somehow in his twenty-odd years in Canada, never learned the word “fart” as part of his vocabulary. That is, until we came home as kids with potty mouths and taught it to him. I’m not sure if it was a comprehension thing, a translation thing that just didn’t quite click, or something he delighted in tormenting me with, but for the rest of his life, “fart” came out of his mouth as “farb” and “farted” as “farb-dud.” And typical guy that he was, he’d let one rip, say, “Tee hee… I farb-dud” and watch with glee as we screamed and ran for the hills.

**Not to say that I don’t. But gas is a very private thing for me and something that should be kept to oneself, and never, ever shared…

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