How many times can one man use the word “fart” in a sentence? I wish I had kept track.
I just finished my morning respiratory therapy. My RT–the prepper guy–thought that this was an appropriate time to discuss his three year old’s flatulence. Please be aware, my mother is still with us. And thanks to Alzheimer’s, she has the sense of humor of a grade schooler. Saying anything that involves the names of any body part or bodily function sets her into a fit of giggles.
Imagine me, sitting on the hospital bed, unable to move because he is doing chest percussion on my back, and unable to react because I’m smoking the hookah pipe that his attached to the wall. I was trapped. All I could see was my mother cracking up, and my sister turning red from embarrassment, trying not to make me laugh each time we made eye contact.
He told us about how his child enjoys farting in public places and blaming it on him. He provided sound effects. He confessed, “I do it all the time. I just need to teach her to be more lady like.”
I tried, when able, to change the subject. I told him about how we entertained Mom last night by telling her jokes from the old “Truly Tasteless Joke Book” that we had as kids. You know the one…it has every possible politically incorrect joke you can think of about every race, gender, orientation, religion…oh, and Helen Keller.
Let’s get one thing straight. I admire and respect Helen Keller. However, I am an “equal opportunity asshole”, as Dennis Miller once said. And a funny joke is a funny joke. We had mom crying. The best part of it all (remember, you have to find a silver lining and a smile wherever you can get one) is that she didn’t remember any of the jokes today. So she enjoyed them all over again.
Anyhow, we told mom a few more jokes about Helen Keller. The RT chimes in, telling us about how they had recently discovered more of her writings. I knew where this was going, and it was headed there fast. He told us all about how they weren’t literary writings, per se, but more diary entries, and very graphic with regards to her becoming a woman. “But what do you expect, man? She’s a kid during a world war, what else is she supposed to write about. No one has seen any of her diary.” Yeah…he went for Anne Frank. So I said, “Yeah, Helen Keller never read her diary either.” Zing.
What followed was more talk about farting, the words pedophile, voyeurism, “get a room”, handle-bar mustache, and pervert were thrown around quite a bit. He then finished up by apologizing for what appeared to be constant crotch grabbing, “Sorry ladies, my shorts are riding up.” My sister can attest to all of this. There is no exaggeration here. I just lived a Kevin Smith movie.
And in the background, throughout all of this, all we could hear was the obnoxious laugh of gaggy girl next door. [my sister: “You’re so mean.” Me: “No, I’m not. I’m honest, and I have to listen to her 24/7.”] She and her fiancee were in the bed together, facing one another and groping whilst cackling. All the while her RT was holding the vibrating chest percussor to her back. “That’s awkward,” says my RT.
It’s not even noon yet.