A Salute and a Toot to Sophisticated Humor

After being such a barely there blogger for the past few months, I'm kinda late to the game. You guys got a big ol' fat head start on me, but I'm only just now beginning to "appreciate" the "new and improved" version of Blogger that's been foisted upon us by the mighty blogging powers that be. (Yippee, huh?) Turned out, I freaked out over nothing. Yeah, the draft of this old post looked weird... I mean, the html coding showed in lieu of the pics and videos that were in the earlier post... but that was it. Much to my delight, everything re-appeared like magic once I hit the preview button. So not a big deal. But even if it had been, it would've totally been worth it. See, my wonderful son-in-law is verrrry musically talented (in oh-so many ways) and I simply HAD to rerun this oldie-but-goodie "just for him." And for you guys, too, of course. I mean, we ALL need to lighten up and laugh, right? (Right!)

Thought for the day:  Beans, beans, the musical fruit; the more you eat, the more you toot. The more you toot, the better you'll feel, so beans, beans for every meal!

Nope; it wasn't ME!

Have you ever wondered what makes something funny? What makes one person laugh uproariously at a comedian, while the next holds his nose and says the routine stinks?  I mean, we all laugh at something. Even little babies laugh.

Music and laughter ... universal languages. Is there anything better than the sound of a baby's unbridled belly laugh? That in itself sounds like the sweetest music, doesn't it? So we cross our eyes, stick out our tongues, and make all kinds of faces at babies. We tickle their chubby little bellies, make utter fools out of ourselves, and generate weird noises... all in the hopes of getting to hear their precious laughter.

And what, I ask you, does almost every baby in the world think is funny?

                                    Apparently, they're partial to... farts ... those musical toots.

Please don't think lesser of me, but (shhh!) so am I. There must be something wrong with me. Maybe a twisted kink in my DNA helix has stunted my maturation process. That would explain it. Why else would a woman my age still think flatulence is so darned funny?

I know. Embarrassing, isn't it?

What three qualities matter most to you in the people you hang around with? For me, it'd have to be kindness, intelligence, and a good sense of humor. But lately, I've begun to question the quality of my sense of humor, because I must admit, few things are off-limits when it comes to cracking a joke or twisting words into a groan-worthy pun, and it doesn't take much to make me laugh.

Like last week. While talking to a  gastroenterologist's appointment nurse on the phone, I asked her where I should report. Upstairs, where my regular doc saw patients? No, I was to go downstairs. "Figures," I said. "In the bowels of the building." Nothing. (Tough audience.) So I apologized, and said she must hear that all the time. Nope. I was the first. See? Sick sense of humor.

Then there was the time Smarticus came home from a hunting trip and told me about a harrowing experience he'd had after one of the other fellas fell out of a tree stand. While driving his friend to the hospital, my poor hapless hubby looked out his truck window and saw a wheel roll past... HIS wheel. Needless to say, he got everything fixed, and got the guy to the hospital okay, but what would YOU have said to him under the circumstances? Me? I sang. Uh-huh. I sang, You picked a fine time to leave me, loose wheel ...  See? Sick, sick, sick.  But not as sick as my penchant for potty humor.

Years ago, when our daughter was about eleven, she ... how shall I say this ... cut the cheese in church. Not noisily, mind you, but with an exuberant and lingering bouquet. Most normal mothers would have scolded her for not saving her stink for the bathroom, or at least given her a suitably disapproving look. Not me. I leaned over and whispered, "Gives a whole new meaning to church pew, huh?"

Fortunately, we weren't asked to vacate the premises.

This is an ACTUAL musical!

But I can't help it. I think the sounds of  flatulence are absolutely hysterical.

Call me gauche, but the very idea of a musical about a man's fartistic abilities strikes me as fall-down-on-the-floor funny. (I mean, really! Can you imagine a man on stage tooting his arse  like a trumpet?)
But I'm not kidding! 'Twas an honest-to-goodness off-Broadway play intended to delight all lovers of potty humor and "pull my finger" shenanigans. Entitled The Fartiste, this play, based on fart artist (I kid you not!) Joseph Pujol, a 19th century Moulin Rouge tooting star, blasted its way to some great reviews and thunderous applause. Pujol had the unusual ability to suck air in through his anus, and then blow it out again, which enabled him to use his posterior portal to tootle tunes on a trumpet, emulate the sounds of thunder and ripping fabric, and even to blow out the theater's gas jet lights. What can I say? From what I've read about it, the play didn't stink.




                                         






  Can you watch this video without laughing? I can't.

A few years ago, Smarticus and I saw two boys in a Dollar Store aisle playing with Whoopee cushions they'd pulled off the shelf. The more rude noises they squeezed out, the more they laughed. Um, me too. Matter of fact, I just HAD to get me one of those things. For one of our grandsons, of course. Didn't mean I couldn't entertain myself by squeezing it as we went through the store. (WHAT? I had to make sure it worked, didn't I?) Anyhow, the intended recipient of the grand gift didn't enjoy it nearly as much as his younger siblings. Especially the twenty-month-old, who would squeeze out a good one, wrinkle his nose, and say, "EWWWWW! Schtinky!" Then he'd laugh hysterically. Um, me too.

It was about then I began to wonder if some aspects of my humor weren't a tad juvenile. I mean, laughing at the same thing a twenty-month-old found amusing? The same thing that makes babies all over the world laugh?

But, as it turns out, I'm not alone. That book on the right? Belongs to my husband. One of our grandsons picked it out for him. The shameful truth is ... our whole family cracks up at bathroom humor.

And we aren't the only ones. The reason for this, I don't know, but many people find flatulence hilarious. Not burps, or hiccoughs, or sneezes ... just poots.










Smarticus once emailed me a newspaper article about a little girl who won a speech contest with her speech about ... you guessed it ... farts. I even read an article in a scientific journal about a medical researcher whose major focus is studying ... you guessed it ...  farts. (Guess his lab is in the bowels of the building too, eh?) Sorry. And another about an Australian study to determine whether pooting in the O.R. could contaminate the field of operation. The conclusion? There's a minute possibility, but only if the perpetrator is naked and taking direct aim at the surgical site. But, don't worry about your surgeon eating beans. According to the study, flatus germs are as benign as the bacteria in your yogurt. Both of these article, I must say, although reporting on the results of serious studies, (or as serious as studies in this particular field can be) were full of puns, innuendos, and fart jokes. Y'know, like something I would've written.

                                                               Kinda made me proud.

So, um bottom line, maybe I'm okay after all. Right. I'm a mature sophisticated woman. (Shut up. This is MY fantasy.) And maybe I'm not the only one with an inner child squealing I don't wanta pull your finger.

So, how's the wind blow with you? Fart jokes crack you up, too, or do they just plain stink?  And what's the most inappropriate thing you've ever said or done in the name of humor? Come on. You can tell me ...

                                There was an old fellow named Clyde

                                Who fell into an outhouse and died.

                                One day, his brother

                                Fell into another,
                                And now they're in-turd side by side.

                                 Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Dem Dirty Birds

Thought for the day:  Growing up, my mother always claimed to feel bad when a bird would slam head-first into our living room window. If she really felt bad, though, she'd have moved the bird feeder outside.  [Rich Johnson]

It's September! Can you believe it? All the kids are back in school, and autumn will be getting its official by-the-calendar start later this month. Georgia's thermometers will probably still be flirting with the ninety-degree mark for a while longer, but at least we have hope that cooler temperatures are on the horizon. Change is coming. And sometimes, change is good.

For me, it's gonna be time to start cheering on our Dirty Birds (AKA the Atlanta Falcons) and to stop grumbling about dem other dirty birds.

In general, I love birds. I really do. Love their songs, love their brilliant colors, love to watch them. But for some reason, they've reeeeally had it in for me this year.

Or to be more specific, they've had it in for my car.

There is an unseen force which lets birds know when you've just washed your car.  [Denis Norden]

Now, I've had my little red car since 1999, and while birds have been known to dive-bomb it quite a bit in the past, it's been downright ridiculous this summer. Totally out of control.

Have I done something to offend the little feathered darlings? Perhaps my singing as I went outside to fetch the morning newspaper literally annoyed the crap out of them?

I dunno, but the truth of the matter is, birds from miles around selected my poor little red car as their potty of choice this summer. Mind you, there are two other vehicles sitting in our front yard which they largely ignored. Think the color red attracted them? Maybe, but Smarticus' big ol' pick-up... a much larger target... is also red. What can I say? For whatever reason, the birds obviously voted to use MY car as their outhouse. Copiously, and often.

Not haphazardly, either. Not like that car in the picture. No, one after another, they perched on my side mirrors and let 'er rip all down the sides of my car. Over and over and over again. And not that I'm begrudging Smarticus his relatively clean truck or anything, but I don't get it. I mean, the side mirrors on his pick-up are almost twice the size as the ones on my car, so the darling birds could've sat on them in luxurious comfort, enjoyed a little chat about the weather, and pooped two at a time.

I had to hold it for two days!!!

It didn't do much good to clean it off, either, because twenty minutes after I got rid of the mess, it was right back again. What can I say? Dem dirty birds decided my car was their loo of choice, and I was stuck with it.

Carols of gladness ring from every tree.  [Frances Anne Kemble]

Yeah, carols. I swear, when we had the audacity to go away in my car... their toilet... for a few days this summer, an army of squawking birds was waiting when we got back. A whole slew of angry birds was lined up across the yard, squirming and fidgeting from foot to foot, with little bird newspapers tucked under their wings. Glaring at me, and telling me what for. Believe me, they didn't waste any time at all in using their facilities, either. Some of them didn't even wait to get a comfy mirror seat; they just flew overhead and let loose.

Tell ya what, it was a regular blitzkrieg. They weren't nearly as polite and well-disciplined as our neighborhood dogs, either.

Oh well. As the summer waned, the birds became less possessive of my poor little car. Maybe that's because most of the baby birds (the most grievous offenders) have grown up and moved on to some other bathroom facility. My car is grateful, and so am I.

But there are still plenty of birds around.... in my yard, and in yours, too. So beware. Not all birds are as eagle-eyed as others, so they just might mistake your head for a little red car.

How about you? Do birds have an affinity for your car, too? I would have taken a picture of my poop-covered car for ya, but (Woo HOO!) we've been having a lot of rain lately. I guess you could say our feathered friends have flush toilets now, and my car is cleaner than it's been all summer.

So now as the season prepares to change, I'm gonna stop worrying about all dem dirty birds who've been having their way with my car, and start thinking about what kinda season our (RAH! RAH!) Dirty Birds are gonna have. And one thing's for sure. No matter how well or poorly the Falcons do, they NEVER poop on my car.

And you didn't believe me last week when I said this week's post was gonna be about bird poop, did ya? Well, actually, if you think about it, it has a much deeper meaning. It's really a simple depiction of the socioeconomic changes in... Nah! Who am I kidding? It's about poop.



                                        Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Wednesday afternoon silliness

Thought for the day: Howcum slim chance and fat chance mean the same thing, but wise man and wise guy are opposites?

I guess you heard that the space shuttle returned home today. Its last hurrah, too. But did you hear about the gypsy lady who was waiting for them there at Cape Canaveral when they landed?

She insisted that she was there to talk to the spirits, and didn't want to leave until she did. The officials, naturally, chased her away, saying, "This ain't rocket seance, lady!"

OK, so maybe that isn't exactly the way it went down. I'm just in one of those weird kind of moods.

It's another rainy day here in the alleged sunny South. Not  pitter-patter rain, either. It's more of a open up the sky and dump out so much water so fast, it chokes the frogs kinda rain. The kind of day I should've stayed inside. Didn't. Couldn't. It's senior discount day at Publix.

Oh, it's not like I'd crawl through broken glass to save a couple bucks, but I don't mind putting off buying bananas for a couple days just so I can hit the grocery store on a Wednesday.

Publix was filled with other (ahem) wonderfully mature people. And in spite of the fact that we all bore a striking resemblence to a bunch of drowned rats, everybody was in remarkably good spirits, even though the whole darned store had been completely rearranged since last Wednesday. I did see one man wandering around like Moses in the wilderness, though. Poor thing.

But, surprise! As it turned out, I actually like the new layout. And tell ya what, as long as the signs at the end of the aisles are correct, we'll eventually find what we're looking for.

It sure would be nice if all the changes in our lives were accompanied with signs that pointed the way, wouldn't it? If our lives came with a table of contents, so we'd have an inkling of what to expect? Oh, and how about this ... how about if babies came with an instruction guide? Man, I really could've used one of those.

Or maybe we'll just have to catch up with that gypsy ...

OK, enough nonsense. This is NOT a day for posting a bunch of silliness. It's a day to curl up with a good book. To take a nap.

Crap. Looking at the clock, I'd say it's actually time to get out in the kitchen and rattle some pots and pans. Where DOES the time go? I've decided that time must be logarithmic. Know how your gas gauge goes down faster once you get below half tank? Same kind of effect. All I know for sure is, they sure don't make a year as long as they used to.

Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other. (And if you can, by George, take a nap!)