Y’know, it truly pains me that after all this time, all these posts, all this brilliant prose and these excruciatingly articulate insights, I’ve never made “Post of the Hour,” let alone Post of the Week, on SFDB. So this effort is a an unsubtle attempt to rectumfy that.
Let’s talk about farts. Flatulence. Rectal eruptions.
My unscheduled departure from the PhD program in philosophy at Temple University years ago may be attributed to my ass: it wasn’t known back then as “Irritable Bowel Syndrome,” but looking back (no pun intended), sure that’s what it was. I couldn’t last 15 minutes without rushing for the outhouse, and while you probably figure producing an abundance of shit is helpful in a PhD program (especially in philosophy!), well, it was the wrong flavor. I couldn’t shit in German.
Lots of lifestyle modifications later, I’m a new man. I changed my attitude and my diet, and then buckling down I changed them further. The details are boring, but broadly speaking, I traded a steady diet of Logical Positivism for greens, garlic, olive oil, and Guido’s, um, er, well, Guido, okay?
Every once in a while I have a flashback, like this weekend.
It started with Saturday night dinner at Royal India, where we dined on chick peas, cauliflower, okra, and hot Dot sauce washed down with a trio of Kingfisher beer. What we didn’t finish we brought home and had for breakfast with strong black coffee.
Dinner Sunday night was cabbage and potatoes. The cabbage came from Mistress Elizabeth’s garden, where Guido, Mistress E, and one other neighbor established a few rows of vegetables and herbs. Yes, the cold spell did some damage, but it didn’t wipe them all out. It was wonderful and we stuffed ourselves.
Bed that night was like sleeping in the marching band’s horn section. Next morning I sent myself fleeing from my own private Idaho trailing that classic rotten-eggs smelling cloud….but as veterans of the gas wars know, you can’t outrun your own asshole. Look at Elizabeth Edwards, for example.
For the last two days my intestines have declared war. Had this happened last week, I might have blamed myself for what happened in Haiti. The violent eruptions emanating from my interior have cost me two teeth, one pair of jeans, and several friends. The good news is, I’ve been thrown out of church, and my cats stopped speaking to me. (The dog, of course, is in love with my ass.)
What I’ll never understand is why when my ass goes nuclear, I develop a permanent erection. Not that it does me any good. Guido is staying in a hotel somewhere.
Things have leveled out, and I’m ready once more for polite society. Good thing, too: I have a whole day of high-level meetings with prospective donors coming up, and nothing says, “This interview is over” like a trumpeting fart and a Bhopalian atmosphere.
Truly, I’m no fonder of my own farts than the next fellow, who flees choking and gasping in nauseated terror, but I confess to a certain awe, if not shock, at the powerful capacities of the human intestine. I wish my writing could affect such raw emotion.
You be the judge. I’ll be the executioner.