Things were quiet in the pre-dawn hours in the little Japanese village of Ushihama. A thick fog had crept out of the nearby Tamagawa River and tiptoed in on little cat's feet. Finding no resistance, it had curled itself around the homes and gone to sleep. I know this because I had risen early to accompany a neighbor into the mountains north of Mount Fuji on a search for the elusive
inoshishi, or wild boar.
And that's when it happened -- a shot rang out! It broke the deep silence that can only be associated with early morning fog. Then a scream was heard. Not really a blood-curdling scream, but more of a shriek. Something that would better describe great discomfort, rather than profound agony.
Wait. That wasn't a shot. It was a fart, and it came from my asshole. It had exited my poor sphincter with a roar that would have put a cannon to shame. It had come out so powerfully that the windows had actually rattled. My anus had dilated into a huge aperture to allow passage of this massive cloud of gas, and then slammed shut so violently I was left with the stinging sensation normally associated with the passage of a log of gargantuan proportion. And the scream was actually the startled cry of my six-month-old daughter, whose slumber had been disturbed even though she was in the next room.
Even though I was in pain, I was proud. This was one of the greatest farts ever let in a long and illustrious career. I didn't ask any of my Japanese neighbors, but I feel sure they had heard it, and that they had been reminded of B-29 raids during World War Two.
I have excelled at little in life. I was a poor student in high school -- not because I was dull witted, but because I was bored. Classes then, decades ago, were taught at the level of the dullest brain in the room. The rest of us had to listen to the same concept continually repeated until the class dunce had grasped the essence of what was being taught. I finally decided to turn my talents inward, so to speak, and become a master farter.
I had an excellent role model in my father. His farts were the things from which legends evolve. He worked at night and, of course, slept during the day. In post-World War Two America, houses were much smaller than they are today, and ours was no exception. The living room and my father's bedroom were not only adjacent, but were separated by only a curtain to keep out the light. We children were constantly admonished to "keep the noise down"; but as far as we could tell, most of the noise was coming from the posterior of my father.
He farted often and with an authoritative loudness. His most-oft repeated fart was what we kids called the "motor boat". It would begin with a single PUTT, usually at a fairly loud volume, and then continue with putts at a decibel level that diminished continually while gaining in frequency of occurrence. PUTT ............ PUTT....... PUTT..... Putt... putt puttputt putputput. It sounded, to us, like someone firing up an outboard and driving off into the distance.
Realizing at an early age that my small anus was no match for the experienced sphincter of the old man, I concentrated on the stench factor.
Once we spent a family holiday at a local lake, where we had to depend on an old-fashioned hand-pumped well for our water needs. It was very hot and I was very active, so I had an almost insatiable thirst for water -- which just happened to be sulfur water. Combine this intake with perhaps a dozen deviled eggs and numerous helpings of my mother's delicious baked beans and you have a formula for a rancid fart indeed.
At that time, we lived about ten miles from a manufacturing plant owned by DuPont. I don't know what they made there, but when the wind was right a putrid odor wafted to us. I had retired early that night when it happened. I felt a fart coming on and relaxed my sphincter to facilitate its departure from my guts. Much to my surprise, the sound coming from my ass was not the usual trumpet-like blast but a whooshing sound, like air coming from a cave opening.
We are prone to exaggerate the duration of our farts, so I will only say that this was the longest fart I ever let. After a moment or so, I heard my sister -- in the next room! -- say, "Phewee, DuPont is strong tonight!" My young bosom swelled with pride: I was as rank as a chemical factory. I couldn't compete with the old man's volume, but I was master of the stench factor.
I suppose it says something about my life, but many of my memories are about farts and the wonderful discomfort I have caused those about me. It is music to my old ears when I hear someone in close proximity exclaim, "What bastard just shit his pants!?" I hope to hear these magic words a few more times over the next decade or so.
