Mr Bombastic

I have chronic flatulence.

Now, before you peel away giggling at the images that declaration may have produced in your head, let me be perfectly clear. It’s not something to be ridiculed. Throughout my life, it has been an extremely difficult and embarrassing affliction to deal with, limiting my social engagements to almost zero, resulting in many nights spent alone without romance, without friends, and without doubt – longing for companionship.

As a child, I was put through so many treatments and studies at the hospital, they mentioned in jest that they should name a room after me – the Frederick Theodore Fortescue Room. It was there in total isolation from the rest of the ward, that I would be examined by doctors and nurses wearing the latest fashion in gas masks, trying to resolve a biological issue with enemas, medication, and eventually, psychological counselling. None of it worked, but I did end up with the cleanest bowels in the hospital.

My parents must have had a moment of madness or a warped sense of humour when naming me. From what they tell their friends all the time, when I was born, the first noise I made was a loud fart, so they branded me with the initials, FTF – aka, Freddie The Farter. An indelible moniker that would forever invite mockery from all quarters of life, so based on a combination of my initials and my malaise, it didn’t take long for Freddie the Farter to catch on at school.

Kids are clever and can be so cruel, but teachers can be even more so. In science class, Mr Hedgeworth revelled in a weekly class experiment that had me standing with my back to a fully lit Bunsen Burner to see if it was true that farts can be set alight. I proved it true so many times, I got confused as to why he had to repeat the experiment every week. So many times, that my mother ended up invoicing the school for the cost of new trousers to compensate for the singed backside of my school uniform pants. That ended the experiments, because my mother suggested to the headmaster that my treatment was a form of bullying. The headmaster was very sympathetic and so surprised to hear that the bullying came from one of his teachers, he suspended Mr Hedgeworth for three months.

Making friends at school was a non-event. Because of my uncontrollable gaseous excretions, I usually found myself sitting at the back of the class, where my symphonies of trumpeted solos would have less of a distraction on the teachers’ lessons. I had a whole row to myself, because when the teachers did their rounds of the classroom, they stopped short of passing the imaginary stink line they had mentally painted between my row and the one in front. Being seated next to an open window, helped dissipate any odours that may have escaped, but after several pupils were hospitalised with pneumonia during one of the coldest winters recorded, the window was permanently shut, leaving my classmates vulnerable to gassing. However, the school upgraded their ventilation system throughout the building to accommodate the after-effects of my constant blowouts, and after that, farting in class ceased to be an issue until exam time.

Schoolkids farting is nothing out of the ordinary. The stale aroma that permeates the rooms and halls of every school, is not always the result of unwashed children. It also contains the remnants of juvenile turgidity. However, mine was constant and sometimes quite fragrant, so it was no wonder that during school exams, I often took mine separately and alone.

Transitioning into my first year of high school, I finally made a friend. Two, in fact. Like me, both had been ostracised from being part of any popular circles of friends, so our association was by pure hapchance. The first boy was Tommy Robinson – a sufferer of immature gum disease and chronic bad breath. Gum disease had taken all but two teeth from his head. The survivors being both of his front incisors. The teachers used to call him “Doc” because of his Bugs Bunny appearance, and the fact that he loved eating soft-boiled carrots in the canteen at lunchtime. That name stuck with everyone. Even I found myself greeting him with “What’s up, Doc,” whenever we met. He didn’t mind. It gave him some notoriety in what can be the cruellest of environments any teenager may encounter.

The second friend I made was Billy Hancock. He suffered from eczema, a dry skin condition that becomes itchy and is easily irritated. No-one wanted him to touch them or touch anything he touched – in case they caught his sickness. The ignorance of people – especially high school kids, knows no bounds, but once you’re labelled, the hallways and playgrounds paint a target on your back. Billy’s label was Scabber. He didn’t mind Doc and me calling him that. He used to say that a nickname is a gesture of acceptance. What did concern his selfless personality, was the uncool nickname I had, so after a quick dive into a thesaurus, Scabber discovered that a synonym for flatulence was Bombastic and he christened me with that name. From then on, the three of us formed a close alliance of Scabber, Doc, and Mr Bombastic. A closed circle of accidental friends.

If there ever was a study on the foundations of narcissism, high school would be my source of material. It’s a breeding ground for tomorrow’s deviants. Yes, I’m being over-dramatic, but when you have suffered the slings and arrows of taunting and bullying, like I have; when unchecked, high school can be as wild as the plains of the Serengeti. Except, it’s fraught with more emotional danger and you’re not always sure who is the prey. One small mistake or hindrance – be it physical or mental, can turn anyone into becoming the hunted.

The three of us survived the jungle of high school, and together, we happily enrolled in our local college. It was a breath of fresh air – no pun intended. Because suddenly immature young adults had a collective forum to attempt the jump into normal adulthood. All of us were romanced by the popular fraternities and my party trick of lighting my farts went over well at the frat mixers during pledge drives, but in the end, we all decided to avoid joining a fraternity – unless we could be together. That opportunity never presented itself to us, so on weekends, we would just grab some beer and hang out at the beach or go see a movie.

In college, each of us followed degree paths that some may explain as ordained. Billy studied dermatology; Tommy went into Dentistry, and I did something against my better judgement. I went back to high school. Not as a student, but as a teacher, and it wasn’t just any high school, it was my old high school. It would be understandable if you thought I was stupid, dumb, or just plain crazy to return to the hallways of shame. However, I thought that I could bring a wealth of understanding of high school mentality and a staunch opposition to bullying to my teaching. That naïve dream was broken on my first day. One of the other teachers there also used to be a student at the same time as me, and she let everyone know who I was and what I had been called.

It turns out that high school mentality is not restricted to the pupils. The teachers – many of them not too long out of high school themselves – were even more brutal. It wasn’t long before cartoon drawings of me adorned the staffroom walls, depicting characters around me holding their noses, and hand-written posters declaring that all Bunsen burners should be extinguished when Mr Bombastic is in the building. Scabber’s nickname for me held, because some other poor kid had adopted the name Freddie the Farter and there could be only one in the school. There was even a reworked joke passed around about me and Confucius farting in church and sitting in our own pews. I took the jibing for what it was. A bunch of small-minded ingrates bored with their jobs, looking for someone to project their frustrations on.

The ironic thing was that by the time I graduated from college, my flatulence had been less of an issue – thanks to my two medical student friends. They made me aware of certain diets and exercises that reduced the amount of tooting I did. However, stress can be a factor on your blowhole and the constant teasing in my new work environment ramped up my anxiety, causing me to regress to what I call, a time before farts landed.

It got so bad, that my ignorant colleagues avoided being in close quarters with me, laughed every time I involuntarily tooted, and made me a pariah to their little narcissistic circles. Nothing had changed. Bullying was still rampant in high school. Only this time it was at a much more concerning level, so I was faced with a choice of whether to report the bullying or fight it. I chose to fight it using my own practiced methods. I ramped up the farting.

My body’s protest voiced my frustration via flatulent means, resulting in the rest of the staff exiling me. I was not to be an accepted member of the faculty, so my roster quickly changed to duties that involved outdoor activities supervising athletic meets, refereeing soccer games, and organising nature walks. But that was no punishment. It turned out to be a blessing. Removing me from the toxic environment of the teacher’s lounge and placing me outdoors in the beauty of the elements and nature, I found that my stress levels disappeared, and my flatulence subsided.

Then, during one of my expeditionary activities with some students, we tried out a yoga class. I enjoyed it so much, because after stretching our bodies beyond normal tolerances, I wasn’t the only one laying on the floor with escaping gases. Several of my students found it liberating, as well. It was a page turner in my life and marked my last term with the school. Handing in my resignation was emancipating. I left without a single farewell. They didn’t deserve it, anyway.

I’m currently one month away from becoming a yoga instructor. My social awkwardness is only limited by those that don’t understand my plight. That is why I choose to only associate with those that don’t judge – namely, my fellow yoga students and instructors. Yoga – it turns out - is a great way to release tension for people of flatulent conditions, so I hope to open a new yoga retreat for people with medical conditions similar to mine, with the goal of providing a judgement-free environment for them all to enjoy. I’m going to call it, Yoga For All Reflex Tooters, or Y-FART for short. All of my classes will be held outdoors in a serene and safe environment, away from prying eyes and ears, and I might just add some classes on nutrition to help people control their flatulence.

I’m still friends with Doc. He’s looking forward to being my first yoga student. Doc is now a successful dentist, pioneering in the field of curing gum disease and using innovative dental implantation methods. He now has a full set of implanted gnashers and the most beguiling smile and personality to match.

Scabber’s skin condition cleared up in his adulthood. Unhappy with his chosen profession, he left the world of dermatology and took up motorcycle racing, but a fiery deadly crash took him from us way too soon. During a minute’s silence at his funeral, I accidentally let out a loud one. When the pastor threw a disapproving look in my direction, Doc’s voice rang out declaring, “It’s okay, Padre. That’s just Mr Bombastic!”

A nickname can be a stigma. However, it is also a gesture of acceptance into a social circle, so I farted again as a tribute to Scabber, causing everyone in the church to laugh. Next thing I knew, a cacophony of flatulent mourners joined in, creating hilarious havoc among the attendees. It was all the pastor could do to keep a straight face when he introduced Scabber’s favourite musical piece – The Carnival Of Venice by Jean Baptiste Arban. He used to say I was the inspiration for his love of classical trumpet. He told me that if flatulence came without smells, I could have been a classical farter in the Royal Fart Orchestra. That was Scabber. Always the joker, no matter what the situation.

I still have trouble enjoying large social gatherings. It’s not that I’m anti-social, it’s that my flatulence – although much more controlled – is still a part of who I am. It is not widely understood or accepted by most of society, who - even in a modern world, still expects me to keep it in.

My yoga classes are a different mindset, however. Even those not afflicted with opulent flatulence, tend to let rip when their bodies are stretched beyond limitations. It is an accepted bodily response and welcomed without prejudice. Shouldn’t that be the way of life for us all? Why hide your true emotions? Just let ‘em out!