It eventually had to happen. I had to have a happiness post regarding my potty brain and scatological sense of humor. Maria, a colleague of mine, shared with me an essay her daughter wrote for her senior English class. I asked for permission to use it on this blog, and I was granted permission. Thank the great whatever that the Murray clan see life and writing as I do. I present the following, in its entirety, to put a smile on the faces of those who read it.
Disclaimer: If you are sensitive to hearing about bodily functions and are easily upset by it, do not continue reading this chapter and skip to the next one.
It was a nice evening in December and my family and I had just finished having chili at my mom’s best friend’s house. We were driving home in the dark in silence, enjoying the white snow falling lightly down against the darkness of the sky when all of a sudden it started. We all gagged at once and didn’t know what was going on until my father laughed. He had just attempted to kill the family by gassing us.
Luckily we turned into the driveway just in time and my mother, brother, and I ran to safety in her room upstairs. We could hear my father running up after us. We barricaded the door with our bodies while he was slamming against it to get in. When he figured his attempts were futile, the silence overcame us. We hesitated to go outside because we knew he’d be there waiting to gas us again. There was no way we’d survive a second gassing. Then all of a sudden - we heard movement, and a noise coming from underneath the door. He had somehow managed to direct the gas underneath into the door crack. We quickly grabbed pillows and pulled them to our noses while I found blankets and robes to stuff under the door. Finally, we were safe.
Disgruntled, we heard him walk down the stairs. My mom yelled down that he wasn’t sleeping upstairs tonight, and my brother and I were afraid to be alone in our rooms, so we quickly snuck outside into open territory and grabbed our sleeping gear. Retreating back into the safety of my mother’s room, we replaced the safety seal to the door and began to listen for the enemy downstairs. We heard the familiar creaking as he reclined in his chair. Had he settled in to watch T.V.?
I was the first to hear the creak of his chair. We then heard the basement door open slowly and wondered what on earth he could be doing. We didn’t hear him come upstairs though, so we considered ourselves safe. Perhaps he was just turning off the power or the hot water? Then, it hit us. The gas had somehow gotten upstairs into the room! We heard him tear up the stairs to hear our gags. My mom screamed out “How did you do that, you sick bastard?”
“Easy, the furnace’s cold air return.” Triumphantly.
Events like this are quite common in my family. We think nothing of farting or poop jokes other than that they are hilarious. Dinner table conversation? Of course! In front of new friends? Why not?
It is pretty much impossible to enter my house without experiencing this. No one has been bothered by it as far as I know; at least they all pretend to think it’s funny. My family thinks that people are weird if they do not enjoy a good laugh after hearing a fart. It never gets old.
But the real story goes on behind closed doors. Like the surprise gas attack, we find it best to shock each other with random gifts. For example, I once went to use the bathroom when I saw that the toilet seat was down and there was a sign taped on the lid saying “Mike’s Room, Do Not Flush,” in childish script. This should have warned me not to open the toilet but I really had to go. Tentatively peering into toilet I saw an interesting bowel movement sitting in the water. Apparently, my brother wanted to save this one as a pet. I heard him come running from his room. “Katy you can’t use that bathroom! Go downstairs!” Because I did not wish to fight with him in my current state of hurry, I obliged and agreed it would be funny to let my parents discover Mike the Turd for themselves.
Another time, I was woken up by the sound of shrieking laughter so intense that I couldn’t go back to sleep. I don’t think my mom was capable of breathing she was laughing so hard. Of course, I knew that I would be shown whatever they were laughing about and soon my mom came and summoned me. She told me that my dad had pooped a lizard, with a head, two arms, and a tail and it was bobbing its head up as if to breath. As repulsive as that sounds, it was pretty entertaining.
I can often tell when my mom has bad gas because she’ll come running into my room while I’m sleeping and demand that I sleep on the floor because “your father is snoring.” So because I can sleep anywhere and I am already so tired, I agree, and she gets into my bed while I settle in onto the floor. One particular time she began to quietly giggle and soon I found out why without needing to ask. She turned on the ceiling fan and quickly I began to gag. She had farted and turned on the fan in order to force the dense air down to the ground like smog near me. Soon she was in stitches while I was crying. Great memories.
My mom has a talent with gas. She usually goes through phases with her farts. What I mean by this is that she farts different noises. Legend has it that one time she farted the word “Mom.” My father thought that I was in the room asking for her. Another time, she went through a phase where her farts all sounded like a duck quacking. This was her favorite, and she was disappointed when it ended. Our parrot soon learned to imitate the phase that sounded like little bubbles coming up from the surface of water and popping. (There is no better way to describe this.) This phase has since ceased but the Twyla continues to carry on its legacy.
She also taught me important skills I can use to impress my friends. She taught me all about “wafting” – lifting a blanket gently with your feet to force the gas into the direction you require. “Cupping” requires farting into your hand and quickly covering the person’s nose and mouth next to you. They have no choice but to breathe in what’s in your hand. She has, in addition, perfected “throwing” her farts. No one else I know can do this, but it is exactly what it sounds like.
I can not pretend that I do not take part in my families’ passion for these things. As a young girl, I once indulged in too many cooked pumpkin seeds. I felt fine until about one in the morning. Mom awoke to hear me crying in the bathroom. I had terrible gas and I had more pain than I had ever felt before or since. She sat with me until we both thought I shattered the toilet seat with my fart. My dad was woken up by this and yelled to my mom to see if she was okay. He couldn’t believe it came out of me. I then went back into my bedroom feeling just fine and fell right asleep. None of us have ever heard anything as intense as that fart, and never expect to again. It’s now part of Murray Family History.
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