At least that’s what my Cute Engineer said, once or twice. I believe he is a lad of more delicate sensibilities than my own; but then I am the daughter of a horn player and, as I have mentioned elsewhere, performers on brass instruments are perpetual adolescents one and all, who could not have persisted to virtuosity had they not a genial tolerance for the flatulent noises that a French horn or tuba will make in the early stages of mastery.
For a short time, around the era of my divorce, I maintained a weekend dinner date with a slightly neurotic but comfortingly ailurophile lady who fancied garlicky haricots and Belgian beers. Our mutual aesthetic broke down on the matter of gender bias. “Something I don’t understand about men,” she said, “is that men think farts are funny.”
The celestial Mark Twain – however privately, in his day — gave us “1601, or, CONVERSATION, AS IT WAS BY THE SOCIAL FIRESIDE, IN THE TIME OF THE TUDORS.”
Ye Queene.—Verily in mine eight and sixty yeres have I not heard the fellow to this fart. Meseemeth, by ye grete sound and clamour of it, it was male; yet ye belly it did lurk behinde shoulde now fall lean and flat against ye spine of him yt hath bene delivered of so stately and so waste a bulk, where as ye guts of them yt doe quiff-splitters bear, stand comely still and rounde. Prithee let ye author confess ye offspring.
In latter days, Doctor Demento circulated this treasure.
Okay, so I’m an eleven-year-old boy. What the fuck. I never pretended to be ladylike from day one. Pull my finger.
EDIT: I used to hang out with a redneck from Vienna — Virginia, not Austria — who cued me in to the original of which the above tune is a parody. It occurs to me that it’s been years since it was current. Le voila: