Family Stories, Part 2

If you are offended by scatological humor and you find nothing funny about farts, then read no further. Like the great George Carlin, it is my belief that farts are inherently funny. Not only that, it is something that binds us together as human beings. While we are not the only creatures on this beautiful earth to fart, we are the only ones who make jokes about it.

And being a male of the species, I have a certain affection for farts and any practical joke involved with them. My favorite jokes involve the assessing blame for flatulence, and few things are funnier than if you can get away with someone else getting blamed for your own stink bomb. The problem with that, though, is if you gain a reputation for such behavior. Your family and friends will always be suspicious of your motivations.

However, if your target is a young child unsophisticated in fart subterfuge, you can have loads of fun. (Oh yeah, like you've never blamed your kid for something you did?)

When my oldest son, Connor, was about 8 or 10, he would want to go everywhere with me. I miss those days, now that he's a teenager he rarely wants to hang out with me. He's got interests of his own, and there is nothing wrong with that. But I do miss being with him and having fun. There is a phase about that age in every boy's life where he wants nothing more than to be in the company of the man who is most responsible for his existence, even if that dad is a jerk. My youngest son, Beck, is going through that phase right now and I'm enjoying it while I can.

Some years ago, when Connor was 8 or 10 or around that age, we took a trip to a local big box electronics store for a DVD or something. Before hitting the store, we most likely got something to eat, probably fast food. By the time we hit the store, my stomach wasn't feeling very well and I knew it was going to have to be a quick trip.

As we walked up to the cashier, I could no longer hold the gas in. Although there was no sound to this blast, there was a horrible smell akin to burning tires. At the cash register, there was me, and Connor and the cashier – an innocent young woman. After the offense was committed, another fellow walked up and stood in line. It was apparent by the looks on everyone's faces that foulness was about and only one of us knew for sure where it had come from, and I wasn't about to claim it when there was a perfectly good scapegoat standing next to me.

As the cashier was processing the transaction while trying her best not to cover her nose and run away screaming, I gave my best stage whisper to my oldest son, the gleam of my eye.

“Connor,” I said. “Did you fart?”

He immediately denied it, almost a little bit too much, which fit into my scheme. Because by that time, both the cashier and the guy in line behind us had focused their suspicious eyes upon Connor.

Too many times, children get blamed for things they didn't do. Thank goodness for that.