Benjamin Franklin: "Fart Proudly!"

 There's an old joke that goes:

An elderly man complains to his doctor, "Doc, I have this problem. I keep throwing these silent farts all day long. (See? There goes one now). I can't help it, doc. I keep farting and farting, but they make no noise. (Oops! There goes another one.) I don't know what's wrong with me. I can throw the most massive farts, and they make no sound. (Ahhh, that's three in a row.) What do you think?"

"I think you need to have your hearing checked," the doctor says.

Now, I told you that story to tell you this story:

My father has his own room. His room, actually, is the guest house in the front of our main house. If it's not called the Unwanted Guest House, then it should be. His room has its own satellite TV, radio/CD player, telephone, and refrigerated air. The problem is that he likes to watch TV in the family room of MY house, which forces everybody (mainly me) to watch TV somewhere else.

And that's where my father was. Sitting in my favorite chair. Watching baseball on the premium baseball channel that we pay extra for him to have. 

"Who's playing, pop?" I ask him.

"I don't know," he answers, and keeps watching. He really doesn't care who's playing. 

Now, I like baseball as much as the next guy, as long as the next guy is someone who doesn't like baseball at all, and I have fond memories of watching baseball on TV as a toddler, when the only other options were The Edge of Night and Sing Along With Mitch. When and where I lost my interest in the sport, who knows? But it's gone. Never to return. No use crying over spilled milk.

Speaking of milk, I'm kind of hungry, so I pour myself a glass of 2% and start to fix myself something to eat.

"Do you want something, pop?" I ask.

"What?"

"Do you want something?"

"Do I want something? Like what, the winning lottery numbers?"

"I'm fixing myself something to eat. I would like to know if you would like me to fix you something to eat."

"You're making it?"

"I'm the only one here."

He thinks about it.

"No, thank you," he says.

My father is the only one who can make a polite statement sound insulting.

Well, more for me.

I'm not too picky about what I eat, and that's probably why my father turned me down. I tend to keep things simple. It's not that I don't appreciate good food, I do. And it's not that my wife isn't an excellent cook, she is. It's just that in my bachelor years I got used to eating pretty much anything that was available. Fast food. Slow food. My own cooking. I kid my wife that I married her for only two reasons: She could cook in the kitchen and she could cook in the bedroom.

Meanwhile, my father gets up from his chair and goes to his little house with all the deluxe accommodations. I grab some potato bread, Miracle Whip, microwavable bacon, lettuce, and a tomato. Deciding to live large I even grab an avocado.

Ten minutes have passed and my father hasn't come back.

I tear off a couple of lettuce leaves. Rinse them. Put them on the side to dry. Slice the tomato. Do the same with the avocado. Still no dad.

I grab four slices of potato bread. Slather them with Miracle Whip. Living life on the edge, I grab French's Mustard from the refrigerator. Slather on a bit of that, too. It should give my sandwich an interesting combination of sweetness and tart.

My father's still gone. The fact that he left the TV on annoys me. He does that constantly. He'll walk in, turn on the TV, and walk back out. Enough time has passed, so I grab the remote and turn it off. If he's not back by now, he's not coming back, I reason.

I guess I shouldn't let it annoy me so much. I'm sure I did the same thing when I was a kid. I probably used to get up and leave Mitch Miller by himself warbling along with the bouncing ball, so I should cut my father some slack. But I'm sure, even as a toddler, I would turn off the TV the majority of the time. Do you know why I know this?

Because my father wouldn't have tolerated anything less.

Settle down, settle down, I tell myself. If I let myself get too irked about him not turning off the TV, I'll ruin my appetite.

So I get back to my two sandwiches. Lettuce leaves torn and rinsed... check! Tomato and avocado sliced... check! Potato bread properly slathered... check! I zap the bacon and add a healthy amount on two separate slices of bread. Heck, my wife's not home, so I zap a few more. Top it off with the lettuce, tomato, and avocado. Perfect.

Surprisingly, my father comes back. He walks over to the TV. Sees it's off. I don't know if this confuses him or upsets him because I had the nerve to turn it off. He stands in front of the black screen. Doesn't move. He's trying to decide what to do, I guess. Meanwhile, I serve myself a little more milk, and top my sandwiches with the remaining two slices of bread.

I keep my head down and prepare to enjoy my meal. I take the first bite of my sandwich. Mmm, that's good, but you know what it needs? Some chips. So I walk over to the pantry and grab myself a bag of Lay's Salt & Vinegar chips. I hear him mumble something.

"What?" I ask, sounding just like him.

"Nothing," he says and heads back to his room.

To get to his guest house he has to walk right past me, through the kitchen, exit the french doors that lead to the patio, follow a little pathway, and bam! he's home. The part of that sentence that's important is the part where I say he has to walk right past me, because...

BRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!

...he cuts loose with a huge fart just as he passes my food and heads out the door.

I put my sandwich down and walk away. I don't know if it was intentional, accidental, or revenge for my having turned off a baseball game he really wasn't interested in. All I know is...

...I've lost my appetite.