Rude, Crude and Lewd

Rude, Crude and Lewd

“MacLeod!”

The old sergeant’s voice echoed along the passages of the cop shop as he jabbed his finger at me and continued. “How many times need I tell you? There is to be no farting in the office.”

“Don’t shake your bloody head at me because I know it was you. Grab a radio and bugger off out on foot patrol. Don’t come back until you get the word from me. Have you got that?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

I knew arguing with the grumpy ex-professional wrestler stood as much chance of success as me trying to piss into a gale. Sergeant Claire, noted for applying sleeper holds on unruly prisoners, had a thing about people farting.

Of course, he never did that!

While aware of his obsessive abhorrence to the natural body function of flatulence, the constables on his shift (me included) delighted in stirring him up by dropping the odd silent fart (or a loud one out of his eyesight).

However, this time I could plead not guilty. Not that the plea did me any good. The foul-arsed Senior PC, ‘Kanga’ Kay, stood smirking as I prepared for several hours of foot-slogging.

That Sergeant Claire sucked on and dribbled saliva from disgusting-smelling roll-your-own cigarettes mattered not to him. I asked him once whether he used camel dung in place of tobacco. That question resulted in me tramping the beat for a couple of hours.

While touching on farts and the blame game, my memory moved into overdrive and recalled several instances which brought on embarrassment, humour, disgust or anger. I shall list them as they come to me.

Should any reader have reached this far into my story, feel welcome to comment on your skills in relation to the humble fart.

 Copper NCOs

With one police sergeant fresh in my mind, Sergeant Bill Burns is another worthy of mention. He, a man not averse to passing wind, whatever the occasion, always remained unruffled.

Several times I’ve blundered into his tiny cubicle-like office to be hit with an unbearable stench, causing me to ask, “Jeez, Sarg, did you drop your guts?”

Without looking up, his stock answer was, “Of course I did. You don’t think I smell like this all the time, do you?”

 Under the Shower

Do you enjoy the sensation of tearing one off while standing under the shower?

I do. Of all my experiences of farting, I label dropping my guts in the shower cubicle as the most satisfying.

If I let one go while I’m walking outdoors, or working indoors, most of the released gases get carried away by the breeze or sink to the floor. However, with the exhaust fan positioned my head in the shower cubicle, I score the full extent of my farts.

The air stream gathers my expelled gases and lifts them upwards, thus allowing me to sniff the full aroma as they pass by my nose. Waste not, want not.

Bastard Fart

Many of you may already have heard the term bastard fart used to describe a smelly passing of wind in an underhand manner. I hadn’t until catching a colleague, Max, using it now and again.

I pressed Max to tell me what he meant by the phrase he was prone to use whenever someone snuck one out in our wet mess.

“By bastard fart, I am referring to ‘a little stinker with no pop.’ Do you get it?”

I did.

Flame-thrower

On boring night shifts, my colleagues, to liven up proceedings, used to test their personal flame-throwing capabilities.

Trial and error workouts proved they gained the best results after a heavy night of drinking beer. My fellow workmate, when preparing, held back a fart in readiness. Then, with the lights turned off, he perched on a chair with legs apart.

To coincide with the striking of a match or the flicking of a cigarette lighter, he let rip. The blue neon-like flame caused by the gasses igniting was a sight to behold. Everyone should try it at least once in their lifetime.

I’ve only witnessed the act by a trousers-wearing bloke, though I’ve heard the result is more spectacular when performed in the raw.

I wonder if girls do that when they have a hen's party?

Ladies’ Fluffs

I read several years ago that the fart of a female is of a more pungent smell than that of a male.

That I can well believe.

Some years ago, a couple of colleagues and I attended a sundowner in a large rural town. The local council had organised the shindig to allow government workers to familiarise themselves with each other and their respective roles in the shire.

During an address to the gathering by a councillor, we three stood with five young female school teachers. Mid-way through the speech, someone dropped their guts, and boy, didn’t it stink.

In hindsight, I should have walked away and prevented the singing of my nostrils. But no, silly me, my silly colleagues and the silly chalkies stood in a group close to gagging.

We must have looked a sight—eight people standing together in a cluster and avoiding eye contact. I wasn’t game to do nowt but study the floorboards.

A post-mortem of the incident between me and my colleagues confirmed the culprit to be, that is, one unidentified sheila of the chalky community. Yeah, and I bet they, at the prompting of the offender, blamed one of my mates or me for doing the dirty deed.

Grandpa and Granddad

Grandpas and granddads worldwide have long practised the ‘pull-my-finger’ trick with their grandchildren.

The old fellow would offer his forefinger to an unsuspecting little tyke, only to let rip a loud fart to coincide with the finger-pulling.

I saw a news segment on TV one evening where a female journo interviewed a couple of small kids regarding a warm and fuzzy incident involving the children's grandfather.

The journo played up to the kids, and she asked a little girl if it was okay to speak to her granddad to complete the bulletin. The sweet little girl replied, “Yes, but don’t pull his finger.”

Follow-through

While working in the gold-mining town of Mt Magnet several years ago, I, as a spectator, attended a social Aussie Rules football match at the local oval.

Many hours of celebrations had taken place the previous night, and more than one player fronted up with severe hangovers. When running onto the playing arena, one young bloke named Jones leapt into the air and clicked his heels together.

On landing, he turned and walked gingerly from the field. Spectators assumed he’d strained a hamstring, and someone asked him, “Did you do a hammy, Jonesy?”

Looking sheepish, he replied, “No. When I jumped into the air, I farted at the same time. I got follow through, and I shit myself.”

In the Car

Hands up all those people who, when they let one go in a car, wind up the windows to savour the aroma. Opening a window sucks out the juicy gasses and lessens the enjoyment.

I used to pay out on my young nephew something chronic. He hated getting into a car with me. I impressed him so much with my farts; he used to tell others I could fart ‘whenever I wanted to.’

For the information of the uneducated, farting in a car on a scorching day increases the effects.

Caught Off-guard

As a young PC, I got caught off-guard big time.

On completing a shift at 3:00 pm one day, a mate and I fronted up at the station’s canteen. We had waited at the doors for the bar manager to open for business, so we were the sole customers when we chested the bar counter.

The manager retired to a back room after serving us. I leant an elbow on the bar top and, while facing my mate, lifted a leg and let rip with a long, loud fart.

“Har har, pick the bones out of that one,” I guffawed.

What? Wasn’t my colleague impressed with a fart of such a magnitude? What was the matter with him?

I, taken aback by the look on his face, turned to see what had distracted him. Standing a couple of metres behind me were two attractive young WPCs. They’d entered the room without me noticing them.

Neither girl uttered a word but, after looking me up and down with expressionless faces, moved to the far end of the bar. They selected seating at a right-angled section, allowing them an uninterrupted view of me.

Each time I glanced in their direction, I sensed they were looking at me. Two days later, while working in the lockup, a WPC said, “I heard you made your presence felt in the canteen the other day.”

My performance in the bar that afternoon slowed down my strutting around and big-noting myself in front of the WPCs.

Lager Bombs

Lager bombs are the farts dropped after a person has spent a heavy session on the slops. A belly full of beer, drunk the previous night, prepares the system for hours of top-notch faring the following day.

A word of warning: Lager bombs may cause follow-through, as suffered by the Mt Magnet football player. However, they outdo others when selected as the source for flame-thrower testing.

Phone Farts

This tale involves another WPC. Cherie, a lovely young lassie, worked at a centre neighbouring my place of work in a rural region. She had a direct line to her office, and when at liberty to do so, I’d dial her number and fart into the mouthpiece when she answered my call.

She accused me, uphill and down dale, of being the phantom farter, but I coughed to nothing.

Soon after, following each time I farted into her ear, I’d receive an envelope through the department’s internal mail network. It contained a single foolscap-sized sheet of paper with a hand-sketched image of a penis.

It depicted an erect penis standing upright, nestled upon a set of testicles. A drawn face showed a big smile, one eye open and the other closed as in a wink.

So, from then on, each occasion I phone-farted her, I received a winking dick figure.

I knew her to be the budding artist by the time frame of the submissions; and the manner of delivery. The buff-coloured envelope had O.H.M.S. (On Her Majesty’s Service) as a heading, which was a government issue, and by using the internal ‘bag mail,’ incurred no postage costs.

That it was me doing the phone-farting and Cherie doing the dick-pics became the two worst-kept secrets in the region.

Dutch Oven

I’ve never been brave enough to play Dutch ovens with my missus, nor has the thought ever entered my head.

Married mates of mine have bragged to me that when they tear one off in bed, they pull the bedclothes over their partner’s head and force them to smell the fruits of their farts.

If I tried that, I swear I’d be walking around after that with a squeaky voice.

13. Excuse Me

Cop NCOs. What causes them to be over-represented in the farting stakes? Maybe because I spent a lot of my working life in their company. This instance involves Bert, a senior sergeant close to retirement.

The first time I struck Bert was listening to him interview a young woman. While talking to her, he let rip a loud fart. He followed that up with, “Excuse me,” and carried on as though nothing untoward had happened.

A minute later, he again farted. He reacted similarly by issuing a further, “Excuse me.” The lady looked at him and then to me. I felt embarrassed for the sergeant. I thought the first fart had been an accident; but after the second and soon after a third, I found an excuse to return to our vehicle.

I think the old bugger was halfway there to losing the plot. When he kept dropping his guts with no consideration as to whom he may offend, I bounced him and demanded to know the reason for his ways.

“To pass wind is a natural bodily function and should not be suppressed,” he explained.

I rested my case.

Dog

I cannot finish without mentioning the guru of the silent fart-----the dog.

Canine, mutt, mongrel, cur, pooch-----whatever you choose to call him/her (I use dog), but the dog has, over time, perfected the execution of the stinking silent fart.

My dog drops his silent but deadly farts without fear or favour. He drops them in my vehicle (the window goes down!) while lying on my lap or my bed; nothing phases him.

Plus, when caught out, one can always blame the dog.

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So, will any reader admit to themselves to being a party to one or more of the instances I listed in this submission, or will they say, “What a weirdo!?”