When I say that I love farts, I mean that I REALLY love farts. They bring me such profound joy and make me cry with the most soul-throttling laughter. In many ways, they have become synonymous with the expression of love and affection in my family. When we’re farting, we’re usually laughing, and when we’re laughing, there is love. Farts are peace. Farts are happiness. Farts are smiles we make with our butts. My deep appreciation for farts began as a tiny tot, following my swarthy uncle around as he unabashedly let fly the most boisterous, malodorous flatulations. My grandfather would fart-walk the entire length of his hallway with carefully executed release, knowing full well that his young granddaughter looked on, awestruck by his magical powers. Out of respect, I’ll omit details illustrating the rich culture of farting that exists between my parents and me. However, my brother would agree that whatever relationship we have as siblings is basically constructed upon the common belief that farts are friggin’ hilarious. Fart smells generally annoy me, especially the skanky farts of a filthy stranger. However, fart sounds, whether they be loud, sharp, quick, booming, rattling, gurgling or squeaking will always, always, always bring profound joy to my fart-loving heart.
— Jaime Becktel
I will go to great pains to not fart in front of anyone for any reason. I don’t care if it’s a drifter from Tuscaloosa and I’ve been eating Fritos and bean dip for days, every sphincter in my body (how many are there?) will stay utterly still and silent. In the company of others, I will hold in so much flatulence and my stomach will rumble so loud that people assume I emptied the tomb anyway.
Yes, I do it, of course. Big time. Like, wake-the-neighbors-up loud, or do-I-have-cancer stenchy, or on the toilet where the up-shooting gust of wind musses my hair. But it’s always alone. Always, always, always.
In my life as a writer, I’ve written well over a million words. And I swear, this right now, is the first time I have ever written the word fart. I’ve spoken the word maybe 10 times ever.
But why? Where did I get such a strong aversion to this? I’m going to blame my older brother, who, from a young age shaped my aesthetic on everything. He taught me what was cool, what was funny, what was acceptable behavior. And if I wanted to hang with him, I knew that farting was not cool, funny or acceptable. Oh and there was that kid in third grade, kind of smelly and unkempt. He farted a lot.
— David Holub