FLATULENCE
An essay on the ignoble fart
Flatulence (or fart in vulgar slang) is the presence of gas under some degree of pressure, in a confined space. The term is normally used of the presence of gas in the digestive tract of mammals, usually leaving a distinct odor. The non-odorous gases are mainly nitrogen (ingested), carbon dioxide (produced by aerobic microbes or ingested), and hydrogen (produced by some microbes and consumed by others), as well as lesser amounts of oxygen (ingested) and methane (produced by anaerobic microbes)[1]. Odors result from trace amounts of other components (often containing sulphur, see below).
There has long been an interest – medical, sociological and jocular – in flatulence. This interest may have been spiked somewhat by the recent episode on an airliner in which a woman “passed gas” and to hide her gaffe, began striking sulfur matches. Of course, in this day and age, the plane was diverted and searched after landing. No charges were filed but the woman was not allowed to reboard.
Flatulence is a potential source of humor, either due to the foul smell or the sounds produced. Some find humour in flatulence ignition, which is possible due to the presence of flammable gases such as hydrogen and methane, though the process can result in burn injuries to the rectum and anus. (See Canterbury Tales.) Much of British and American literature contains stories about flatulence.
Actually, the interest in flatulence, which is the nexus of no fewer than a dozen web sites, spiked with the advent of space travel. Nitrogen is the primary gas released. Methane and hydrogen, lesser components, are flammable, and so flatus is susceptible to catching fire. Methane gas is the chemical agent responsible for mine explosions. Hydrogen of course was the chemical agent used in the Hindenberg.
As the literature demonstrates, everyone farts – popes, presidents, military people, grandmothers. The dead are known to fart hours after death.*
Flatulence occurs when a food does not break down completely in the stomach and small intestine. As a result, the food makes it into the large intestine in an undigested state. For example, if you are "lactose intolerant," it means that you lack an enzyme (lactase) in your intestine -- the enzyme that breaks lactose apart into two sugar molecules so they can enter the bloodstream. Without lactase, lactose passes undigested through the stomach and small intestine and arrives in the large intestine. There, the lactose meets up with billions of hungry bacteria -- the natural "intestinal fauna" we all have in our large intestine. These bacteria are happy to digest lactose. They produce a variety of gases, in much the way that yeast produces carbon dioxide to leaven bread. Gases such as methane, hydrogen and hydrogen sulfide are common gases that these bacteria produce. Hydrogen sulfide is the source of the odor we associate with flatulence.
Benjamin Franklin satirically proposed that converting farts into a more agreeable form through science should be a milestone goal of the Royal Academy. A story in The Arabian Nights, a story entitled "The Historic Fart" tells of a man that flees his country from the sheer embarrassment of farting at his wedding. An apocryphal story about Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford is that he farted while swearing loyalty to Queen Elizabeth I and consequently went into self-imposed exile for seven years. After his return, the Queen was reported to have reassured de Vere: "My Lord, I had quite forgotten the fart." Remember Blazing Saddles, Monty Pyhton and the Holy Grail, etc.
In his fictional take on the New York Giants – Semi Tough – Dan Jenkins tells of a game-changing play during which a Giant dove into a pile after a mass tackle, farted, the air turning all the hues of a Hawaiian rainbow, and the ball rolled free – the Giants recovering and going on to score.
I once took a dazzling young thing to dinner at one of the most fashionable restaurants in the Bahamas. Between the entrée and dessert, she farted – loud enough to rattle the crockery being carried by a stunned waiter. All romantic notions sailed out through the hastily-opened patio doors, along with her emission. I went to the patio, not to escape the noxious fumes, but to see if the flora and fauna were dying.
I served in the Army with a draftee named Franklin Delano XXXXX, who was called FD back in rural Harlan County Kentucky. FD remains the major reason why my old friend, Congressman Charlie Rangel, is wrong – we should not reinstitute the draft.
FD walked into our barracks, wearing the first pair of new shoes in his life. His mother had used a bowl to cut his hair, and he didn’t have a sound tooth in his head. Solid build from years in the field, but kind of narrow between the eyes. The company commander, a West Point reject who came up through OCS, did not like me but I was a squad leader because I had a college education. FD became my ninth trooper.
First squad, 1st platoon, Able Company, at Camp Chaffee Arkansas was in basic training. But, the CO, for reasons I will state later, sent me every gold brick loafer and socially deficient character in the company. There was Golden, a lithe black hustler from Fort Worth who scammed a few soldiers who were terrified by him out of their pay, including FD and this little homosexual from Wichita. Golden stopped his scamming after we threw him a blanket party. Couldn’t see out of one eye, nor walk straight, and there was blood in his urine, but, like Saint Paul, he sinned no more.
Heroux was a Cajun from New Orleans, whom we naturally called Frenchy. A graduate of the bare-knuckle existence in the shotgun houses and cribs of Storyville, he was talented with a knife – could split the hairs on a frog’s ass at 15 feet. Frenchy wanted to turn Golden into a soprano.
Most popular guy in the squad was Vic, a Dallas type who had been around the block a few times. Vic’s aunt owned the best whorehouse in Fort Smith. She and her girls hosted a graduation party after we finished basic. Drinks, food, and “party favors” were on the house. One hostess I knew had briefly been a student at Oklahoma, where she was popular with the Sooner football team.
One of the straights ended up a guard on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and another became a Federal judge in Texas. The eighth guy was a former sergeant who had been busted down for throwing an officer through a plate glass window – he came to us from the stockade – with a penchant for bad booze and worse women. A pet trick of the officers – the cadre – was to take us on bivouac, then race through the area at night, cutting all the tent ropes. When they got to the tent I shared with Jones, he braced one against a tree with a bayonet at his throat and I aimed a Thompson submachine gun at the other. Since physical harassment could cost them their bars, no charges were filed – but Jones and I paid in other ways.
FD was psychologically incapable of maintaining a neat footlocker, could not memorize the chain of command, nor could he reassemble an M-1. Frustrated after a week during which my whole squad was on company punishment for his inadequacies, I sat down with him, and asked about his family and education. He was still in 8th grade when he got drafted, but skipped school a lot to help his mother with seven siblings. His old man’s major talent was making moonshine – for which he was supplier and consumer.
Don’t sell FD short. That old boy had three talents. He was a champion mule skinner – he and the mules were on about the same level intellectually. FD said he was a good shot with a rifle; a disaster with the M1, during night firing, I fired his Garand and mine. So I borrowed an 03 Springfield bolt action from a sniper and took FD out to the KD range. FD could shoot the jewels off a squirrel at 100 yards.
His third talent – FD could fart in two octaves.
He said the smaller kids in school would beg him for demonstrations. He actually cut loose one day when we were marching on the drill field. Imagine a bull moose in heat.
Came a day when FD got a letter from his mother, written by the local schoolmarm. FD had trouble reading so I read it to him. His father was in the hoosegow for selling his white lightning, and she needed FD to come home and do the plowing. FD cried when I read the letter to him. I decided to help him obtain a compassionate discharge – which could be immediate and decided for all practical purposes at the company level.
I wrote the papers, and accompanied FD to see the CO. Like I said, he was a hard ass from Boston, no use for “hillbillies.” He had even lesser an opinion of me; I had an incredible high score on the Army “battery” including the IQ test, and was headed for Army intelligence and a commission.
Somehow, the CO had heard about FD’s proficiency with a Springfield, ignoring his overall incompetence. The captain glared at me, after I recited the litany of FD’s shortcomings as a soldier. Surely, he said, this private has some talent.
Whereupon, FD farted. Twice.
Somewhere, there is a rotted carcass of a long-dead animal which evinces this smell – but in that tiny office at Camp Chaffee, there was just FD. The captain turned the color of a Granny Smith apple. I could sense the brass tarnishing on my uniform.
The Captain yelled for me to take FD out of his office, but even though my lungs were bursting, I refused to move without the CO’s signature on that paper. He balked – and I played my trump. I said I am sure that the regimental commander, a brigadier general named Hal Muldrow, would hear my plea favorably. Why, the captain shouted, you’re not allowed to see generals. Well, I replied, this general is my mother’s cousin.
FD got his compassionate discharge. I got the shaft. After romping with the hostesses, I returned to Chaffee to pick up my travel orders. I was not headed east to Army intelligence; I was being sent to Camp Carson CO to join a bunch of killers in a regimental combat team called the Black Lions of Cantigny, who were about to enter into war games with the Special Forces before redeploying to Korea.
Jones went with me, where he distinguished himself by destroying an electronic pillbox target – the range officer kept ruling no hits but my men were “dying” – so Jones lobbed a live grenade. We were already on the sheet for an incident on the bazooka range. I hit a target with a willy peter shell which didn’t explode, and the range officer screamed at me for the miss. Jones loaded a live round, and I took the turret off the derelict tank. During the war games, my squad turned an eight hour patrol into a two-night trek, but we finally captured an enemy commander. Alas, I had to admit that when I barged into his HQ, my first question was, “Where in the hell are we?” I was lost. Just like trying to find certain ball fields. A few more incidents, like a party up on Lookout Mountain where I sent a wheat farmer from Nebraska into a room with an understanding young woman – a boy went in, a man came out – and the brass decided they wanted me back East while they went West to Frozen Chosen.
I thought of FD over the years – probably married his second cousin and got another mule or maybe a milk cow for her dowry. Doubt he ever made much money from farming, but I could envision him down on the South forty, a big grin on his face, going into town on Saturday nights where he would swap stories at the country store about his time in the Army – cutting a fart or two for emphasis.
*When I was in my 16th summer, a group of Mexican pickers drove under the side of a semi at the “Y” in Paoli Oklahoma. Not enough ambulances, so they loaded one guy into a hearse and asked me to drive. I was hitting the century when that Caddy crossed southeast 59th Street in OKC and just as I pulled into Mercy Hospital, the doctor tapped the glass, shaking his head. The Mexican had gone to that big land of chili peppers in the sky. We wheeled him into the ER and medics pulled the sheet off and stripped his bloody clothes. I was heading back to the bay when he suddenly raised a leg, farted and peed. I nearly lost it but a medic explained it is natural for deceased to emit body fluids and have muscle contractions after death. I’ve seen other men die in the years since, but the look on that man’s face, so much pain when we picked him up, so serene in death, stayed with me for years. RFH