Warning. This post is about farts. If stories about them, jokes about them, or even the word offend you, please go take a look another post. Like the one called “Fancy Poop” or the one called “Love Poop” or the crowd-pleasing favorite “Kindle Poop.”
A few months ago, the kids and cousins were in a feverish knock knock joke battle when my brother Steve entered the room and stood Akimbo.
“Interrupting toot wh…”
And he interrupted them with a powerful flatulence. There has never been, nor will there ever be a funnier joke to my sons. Most notably Luca, who almost needed to be rushed to the hospital with hyperventilation.
Luca loves farts. He loves the concept. He loves the sound. He loves the pageantry. And mostly he loves the word. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. However, in the interest of keeping Diana from moving to another town we declared a prohibition on the word.
It became henceforth known as “The F word.” You are no longer allowed to say the F word without having to go sit on the steps. Elijah was the greatest offender, but mostly because Luca simply loves saying “The F word.” He says it with such glee, such naughtiness.
Oh how he loves to catch you in the act. “Oooooooo. You said the F word!” He makes the “Oooo” go up and down like a roller coaster. “OoooOOOOooooOOO!”
He also loves to manufacture offenses. Luca crawls up to Diana and whispers in her ear, “Please Mommy. Please say the F word.”
“Ladies don’t say the F word.”
“Please, Mommy. Please. Pretty please. Pleeaasssseeeeee?”
When she gives in, he howls, “Ooooooo! You said the F word!”
And then I have to pretend to be angry and send her to sit on the steps.