Archive for April 6th, 2012

Izzybella busted me. I totally forgot Fart Jokes when I was giving you my list of awesome F’s.

As I’ve discussed before, I have the sense of humour of a 12-year-old boy. And I find fart jokes incredibly funny. I know, terribly declasse of me. But there it is. Whenever I try to tell a fart joke, I laugh so hard that I get hiccups. And not just any kind of hiccups. Not the teeny little “hic” that you hear some people do. Nah, I get the kind that are loud, echoing, and hurt all the way down to the bottom of my sternum. I remember once getting hiccups when Joe and I got out of our car at Voldemart. I hiccuped all the way from the car, through the parking lot, and into the building where I grabbed the first bottle of water I saw and downed it to stop the hiccups. And people were laughing at me. Schmucks.

Anyway, fart jokes. That was something my nephew Chase and I shared in common. And there was one day that Joe and I were over at their house, doing a cookout, and Chase and I were giggling over the results of baked beans. He made a comment about it, his father gave him The Look, and Chase looked at me so reproachfully that I had to take responsibility. That was embarrassing.

The funniest fart joke I’ve ever heard:

Long ago, in the days of the wild and woolly west, a native American (we called them Indians when I was a kid) went to the general store.  When the storekeeper asked what he needed, he said, “Big Chief no fart.”  The storekeeper gave him some dried beans and instructed him how to cook them. “I guarantee your chief will fart after he eats these.”

But the next day the native American was back, and once again grunted, “Big Chief no fart.”  The storekeeper gave him some more dried beans. “I know he’ll fart when he eats these.”

Alas, the native American was back the third day. “Big Chief no fart.” The storekeeper was at his wits’ end. He gave him even more beans, told him to cook them and to have the chief eat the entire pot.

Late that night, after the storekeeper had gone to bed, he was awakened by a huge blast. He leaped out of bed and pulled on his boots over his longjohns, and ran outside.  The whole tribe of native Americans was running in his direction. “What happened?” he hollered, and the man who’d bought the beans yelled back, “Big fart no Chief!”


Okay. Guess you had to have been there. But I distinctly remember trying to tell it and just getting those huge gulping hiccups.

And then there was the time when Joe and I were with his niece K, driving somewhere. Joe has this habit of lifting up one buttcheek whenever he farts, and his niece looked slyly at him. “I know what you just did, Uncle Joey.”

So I was driving home from Cosmic Cafe one night with Jehara and Izzybella, telling them about it, and when I lifted one buttcheek in demonstration, danged if I didn’t inadvertently let out a fart.  Jehara and Izzy thought I’d planned it that way, and were laughing like crazy. It got even funnier when I confessed it was a complete accident.

And even though I think fart jokes are hysterical (just ask Izzybella how often as kids we stayed up late, talking when we were supposed to be sleeping, telling fart jokes), I get as embarrassed as the next person when I let out an audible or a smellable fart.

Wow. This is super embarrassing. My face is red and I’m doing that embarrassed little giggle that if I don’t stop will lead to snorting.  So I’m ending this one now. Sorry to add the extra F, but Izzy was right. I am the Queen of Fart Jokes.

Chasie, this one’s for you!! Love you and miss you like mad!

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Today’s post brought to you courtesy of the letter F!

When I was a kid, I was no stranger to the art of cussing. Well, I mean, after all, my dad was a sailor. I got kicked out of Sunday school at the ripe age of 3 for calling my teacher a sonuvabitch. Did I know what that meant? Of course not. I was three, after all. I just knew that’s what you said when you were mad. But we’re on F today, so I bet you know what word I’m going to talk about. I think I was 6 or 7. I don’t think Izzybella had come along yet. Just like the sonuvabitch word, I also knew that ffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuddddddddddggggggggeeeeeeee was what you said about someone when you were mad. And oh, I was mad. I had a friend from El Salvador, and of course I no longer remember what she’d done that hacked me off so badly, but I told an older girl, in confidence, that I wanted to ffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuddddddddddggggggggeeeeeeeee the other girl. I guess I thought it meant I wanted to beat her up or something. The older girl went right to my mother, who went right to the bathroom and thoroughly washed my mouth out with soap. I remember crying, wanting to know what I’d said that was so awful, but no one would tell me.  When I got old enough to understand the meaning of ffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuddddddddddddddggggggggggggggeeeeeeeeeee, I was heartily embarrassed to realise how badly I’d misused it in that situation.

And speaking of fudge, my Dad makes great fudge. Nothing fancy. He just uses the recipe with the chocolate chips and the marshmallow cream, but he has it down to a fine art. It’s never grainy, never too soft or too hard. Just perfect. I make it every now and then, and one of my favourite things to do is eating the little bits left in the dish after I’ve cut the fudge and put it onto a serving dish. Ooh, and eating the fudge off the wooden spoon once you’ve poured the hot mixture into the dish to set.

Faithfully!   Do I really have to type more? Oh, okay. “I’m forever yours, faithfully.” Can’t you just hear Steve Perry singing it?  Mmmmmm. And then there’s Faith, by Wham!  I remember the first day of an acting class, and the professor paired us up into groups of two. We had to learn about each other, and then do a commercial about our partner. My partner forgot everything I told her, so she burst out into song. “You’ve gotta have Faith!” It was amusing.

Foreigner. Foreigner will forever be associated with a truly unpleasant situation. It was my first year out of high school, and Van Halen was playing in Dallas. I wasn’t all that into Van Halen, but my boyfriend at the time definitely was. So I bought us tickets. The day of the concert, he picked me up at work and off we went. Afterward we had more than a few adult beverages, and then he was going to drive me back to my car.  Apparently he was weaving a little too much, and police sirens went off behind him. Now you’ve got to understand–I was brought up by a cop. If a police orders you to pull over, you do it. Like that. So I was appalled when D not only didn’t pull over, he sped up. It turned into a police chase right out of my nightmares, and finally we had 3 police cars hem us in so he had to pull over.  As they were pulling him out of the car, doing the whole breathalyzer thing, and then putting him into the police car, I was standing there watching, thinking there was no way this could be real. Bear in mind that it was in Oak Cliff, around 1 a.m. I had no money in my handbag, no car, nothing. They allowed D to give me some change and the phone number for a friend of his who lived nearby. Then all three police cars drove off, leaving me alone, in Oak Cliff, around 1 a.m.  I was terrified. I called D’s friend, who was obviously asleep, but said that he’d come get me.  And I waited.  There was a large car that drove past me several times, increasingly slower each time, and I started planning what I would do when, as seemed inevitable, they came by again and came at me. Fortunately, D’s friend and his father arrived just in time. And they insisted on driving me all the way home to Fort Worth instead of taking me to my car. My father drove me to work the next morning, without a word of recrimination, and even got me Jack in the Box tacos to treat my hangover. And if I recall correctly, my mother called the Dallas police and lambasted them for leaving an 18-year-old girl alone on the street corner in Oak Cliff at 1 a.m.  Yes, I used to lead an exciting life!  Oh–and in case you’re wondering what Foreigner had to do with this, since we saw Van Halen–the song Juke Box Hero was playing on the radio in D’s car just about the time the car chase began. I’ve hated that song ever since.

Flowers. I love flowers. My husband has never understood, in 20 years of marriage, that he would get brownie points if he were to send me flowers at work. So every once in a while, I send them to myself. A few weeks ago I got some pretty stems at Michaels and stuck them down behind my monitor at work, so I have some gorgeous red and white flowers all the time. That’s a lot cheaper than sending them to myself at work. He is good, however, at bringing flowers home for me at the house. And that always makes me happy.

Fever. I’ve gotten the flu several times within the last 15 years. That’s not a lot, but it is more than enough for me. And when I have the flu and those horrifying high fevers, I get really crazy dreams. I know there is at least one post on this blog about flu-related dreams. The last time I had the flu, my fever was so high that I just couldn’t get any rest. Then I fell asleep for a short while, and dreamed that Joe washed my feet with alcohol, which brought my fever down. So when I woke up, I asked him to wash my feet with alcohol, and lo! It brought my fever down.

Feet. I have big wide feet, which makes finding comfortable shoes a bit difficult. (I love you, Skechers!)  I also have very sweaty feet. Unpleasant combination. I have learned that Avon foot sprays work wonders. I have also learned that if I soak my feet in a bucket with strong black tea, that helps. Just passing on the knowledge, in case anyone else suffers the same affliction.

Friends & Family. The best of all, don’t you think? I have a fantastic family. I’m blessed with a brother and sister from my family of origin; then I had an adopted half sister (she sadly passed away some years ago); then I’ve got a stepbrother and stepsister. Then there are all the kids, who are just as cute and sweet as they can be. I’ve got a great mother, a great father and great stepmonster. Then there is my family of choice–Jehara, Amethyst, CCJames, Sarah-bear, –and I can’t imagine my life without them.  So family is the best thing of all!

F. Scott Fitzgerald. When I was in 11th grade, we had to read something of Fitzgerald’s–a short story, perhaps, or else The Great Gatsby. Whichever it was, I was enchanted, and thus began a lengthy obsession with Fitzgerald. I’ve read all of his short stories, all of his novels, the books about him, books of his correspondence. I’ve also read Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald’s novel. I’ve read their biographies. I even used to have a set of statues that I christened Scott and Zelda–they were dressed in 20’s garb. I hauled them everywhere I moved until one of my roomies fell in love with the statues. By then I had gotten over Scott & Zelda, and was happy to pass the statues on to her.  But there for a while, I got to be Daisy, Rosalind, Isabel, Gloria, and all the other heroines who were never strictly heroines but still on a bit of a pedestal. I was definitely not on a pedestal in anyone’s life, so I appreciated the opportunity to vicariously stand with them. And we never even remotely approached having money, and I was fascinated to see what the lives of moneyed people were like.

I suppose this is enough F for today. Tune in tomorrow to see what G will bring!

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