An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation

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Why yes, of course, within the first week of the community site being live the questions have devolved into farts. If ever there were a marker for success! Here’s one from Mama M.

I answered this question over there, but wanted to expound here because I realize I haven’t ever told you guys the actual story. I dated a few uptight men when I lived in LA, and one of them once told me that his philosophy is that women do not use the bathroom. Period. We do not possess bodily functions, we do not have snot nor do we poo. In fact, he couldn’t even say the word POO. He didn’t even use a euphemism, he just waved his hand and made a face that looked like he had just been punched in the nuts. I mean, think about all that physical work to remain proper! EXHAUSTING.

Needless to say, it didn’t work out.

Reminds me of my recently deceased Granny Boone, a woman so devout to the Mormon religion that she could not utter the word SEX. Instead, she would say SEC. As in, can you believe those two gentiles are engaging in premarital sec! Which is just about as dumb (sorry, Granny) as kids at BYU saying FRIGGIN and FETCHIN when you know, YOU JUST KNOW, they are itching to use the other word. Well, you know they are just itching to engage in the other word, but that would be against the honor code. That’s why all BYU graduates are very, very good at foreplay.

You ever dated a BYU graduate? We are all abnormally good at kissing.

(I wonder how many BYU students are reading this, getting a bit red in the face, and wondering if they should go talk to their bishop.)

Anyway, I remember the day that Jon came to my apartment in LA for the first time, for our first date, and it was a most memorable date for many reasons, one being that we didn’t leave the house for, oh, maybe 48 hours. Because of all the talking. And sitting very far apart from each other! (Remember, my dad reads this, so I have to maintain certain illusions.)

But within the first fifteen minutes of being in my apartment he let a fart rip so loudly that I went deaf for several minutes and then spent an hour picking up the dishes that had fallen from the cupboards due to the resulting jolt. I mean, he just let it go, he let it out there, did absolutely nothing to hide it. HERE’S MY FART, WORLD. BASK. EMBRACE!

Now, he and I had been talking for a few weeks on the phone and had spent many late nights instant messaging about who we were and wanted in life, and about a week before our first date I called my father in Tennessee and said, Dad, write down this name: JON ARMSTRONG. JON. WITHOUT THE H. Because he is the man I’m going to marry. And my dad did just that, scribbled a message on his calendar, and the day that Jon and I eloped he called Jon, broke out that calendar and read what he’d written. It was a beautiful moment, followed by my dad saying that he owned a shotgun and was prepared to use it.

So I already knew that I loved Jon and was going to spend the rest of my life with him, even before that first date. But when he set free that fart into the world, I looked at him, and he looked at me, and instantly we knew we were soul mates.

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Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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