When I was a young lady, I didn't care to be a lady. I enjoyed fart jokes too much. The gut-wrenching, laughter-inducing humor inspired by the gas we pass was worth a lot more to me than my dignity as a respectable young woman.
Today, I will always laugh when the cheese is cut or when wind has been broken because I still am a child in a woman's body. Like the inextinguishable odor of rotten flatulence, my love for fart-themed wisecracks and tremendous stories of incredible farting feats has yet to die. Even on my deathbed, I will ask at least four of my loved ones to pull my finger.
We have profited greatly from the inventions of the whoopee cushion and fart machine, bringing joy to backyard barbecues and slumber parties galaxy-wide. (Just picture extraterrestrial life trying to figure out the purpose of a fart machine.)
No one can deny the simple beauty of a fart joke, and if you do deny it, then you're not a fun person. For those of you who dare to hate on farts and the corresponding humor: if I ever fire a stink torpedo in your general direction it's not out of love. It's out of an animosity and pity for your fart-loathing soul.
From beef stews on school playground to butt trumpeting and blame games, fart jokes are legendary. They bring people together, encircled by a humbling backdoor breeze. Our greatest mentors—parents and teachers, neighbors and grandparents—were the ones to tell us of the greatest rips and toots. And we will continue to joke with our children about making pooties, sharting and inverting burps, and one day they will continue with their own children.
(I ask that you please imagine the rest of this passage accompanied by "America the Beautiful.")
Farts are forever. This most natural and most amusing of anal activity has brought together and will continue to unite all people because there's nothing as marvelous as a turd whistling for the right of way, nothing as inspiring as the most intricate butt percussion and nothing as beautiful as emptying one's tank.
Four score and seven foul howls ago, our founding fathers probably made fart jokes. Just imagine George Washington giving Benjamin Franklin a smirk when he blames his own stinkers on John Adams. Envision the tasteful fart jokes made at the first Thanksgiving or the toot competitions held along the Oregon Trail when fathers, mothers, sons and daughters all ate too many beans.
We are a nation of air-biscuit-laying gas passers. We exercise our freedom to fart every day and then proceed to blame it on the person next to us. March on, gas masters! Keep rolling windows down, you in-the-car butt flappers! Fart long and prosper.
