Summary: What I am about to say will probably be one of the most debated statements I’ve ever publicly made, but I’m going to say it anyway. Good dads fart on their kids. They just don’t fart at them, or toward them, or around them. No, they grab their squealing kids, wrap one leg around them, pin them down, and let it rip. Actually, let me rephrase. Good dads fart on their boys. I can’t imagine any little princess of mine would ever be put into any such predicament with my bazooka aimed at her, but then again, I did it to my sisters growing up, and they did it to me, so you never know. But, yeah. Good dads fart on their boys, the same way brothers do to each other both growing up and long into their twenties and thirties. If my brother and I ever stop, I’ll let you know. It’s a brotherhood thing. It’s a camaraderie thing. It’s a bonding thing. Womenfolk, I don’t expect you to understand, so just take me at my word for it. When you fart into your hand, release it into your brother’s face, and yell “cup of cheese!” as loud as you can… that’s the stuff that brings you closer together. When you sneak up to your sleeping brother and let a hot one waft right in his face… that’s love. When you snatch your brother’s baseball cap off his head, blow a hot one inside and quickly replace it… that’s just awesome. And it’s called a Brown Topper by the way. But for any of that to actually be awesome, you have to be willing to take it as often as you give it. You can’t get mad when you’re lying by the pool and a loud pfffttt is aimed your way while the perpetrator runs by laughing. You’ve gotta laugh too. And you’ve gotta laugh when it happens in the elevator, and in the lunchroom, and in the back back seat of Mom and Dad’s Station Wagon. You laugh because you know you’ll have your revenge. That is brothers for you. Er, at least that is me and my brothers. It’s our code and our law. But as a dad, I’ve had years and years of unreturned flatulent attacks on my kid. He has always laughed hysterically when I did it and never thought to return the favor. He was never mad or upset about it. He always thought it was great fun. It was like a giant, never-ending free pass for me to continue my lifelong brotherly fun with my own kid, but without ever having it dished back to me. Until, that is, last week when I was lying face down on the carpet in the middle of a wrestle with Noah, and he suddenly sprinted over to me, sat on my face, and let the biggest fart you could ever imagine rip right then and there. CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS PAGE I pushed him off of me. “Oooh, Noah! What are you doing! Don’t fart on my face!” I belted. Disgusted. He just laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And then he suddenly bolted straight-up. Sat on my face before I knew what he was doing. And he let another one rip. Again I threw him off of me and yelled for him to never do that again! Again he laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And in that moment, I knew… We were in an official lifelong war. I couldn’t get mad, and I couldn’t get upset, and I couldn’t put my foot down and say no to it because… that was the code. You fart. You get farted on. You give your licks and you take your licks like a man. Or like a brother, however you prefer. Since that horrid day last week, Noah has snuck up on me no fewer than a dozen times and started ferociously wiggling his butt in my direction. Half the time he can get one out. The other half the time it’s already sucked back up inside of him. But he’s getting better. And that scares me. You see, I happen to know just how often I tricked him into pulling my finger over the past six years. I happen to know how many times I pinned him between my legs and let one go. I happen to know how many covered wagons I gave him during our movie and popcorn nights.
