The Birth of the Fart Dictionary

The Birth of The Fart Dictionary

It was another day of walking counter-clockwise around the pool, grudgingly coaxing creativity out of my left hemisphere and onto paper, and I’m duly rewarded with email number ninety-seven stating “…though your writing has merit…”, or “…it’s an interesting concept but…”  Rejection, I’ve prepared myself for this. It’s part of the process. But that particular day was a bad day, or maybe a good day, to tell me “no”.

            I settled on my patio and commenced irrigating my self doubt with a bucket full of chilly lagers and an overall screw it attitude. I’m rarely a pessimist, but today I was ticked. So I did what any great writer wannabe would do and asphyxiated my recent refusals in a cooler full of beer. I deserved it. The sun will rise tomorrow.

            Aaahhh, and there, across the table from me: my lovely wife in all her elegance. That beautiful, always supportive, love of my life who just carelessly and shamelessly annihilated me in several games of backgammon. She didn’t just win; she kicked my brain, and did it so gleefully. Great, more fuel to the proverbial fire of my currently sedated writing skills. My mood went from foul to downright rotten and stinky. I leaned back in my chair, after clearly stating that I’ll never play backgammon again and, well, I farted. She giggled, and a beer-headed, foggy idea came to me.

“What kind of fart would you call that?” I asked.

I quickly answered my own question.  “That was a defeated fart. A fart intended solely and maliciously for your board game competitor because they just beat the crap out of you.”

She laughed, I laughed. I grabbed my journal and my Webster’s and spent the rest of the afternoon slogging sweaty beers and letting the fart definitions fly. The world soon became a fart canvas for my somewhat deranged, minus a few brain cells, imagination. I could do this all night – drink, write about farts, and laugh hysterically with my soul mate.

The next morning I sleepily rumbled to my desk for a possible accomplish-something-literary-breakthrough, and noticed my scribbling from the day before. The semi-inebriated handwriting was difficult to recognize at first, but the words lunged at me. Read me. Read me again. This is funny stuff. I’ve thoroughly entertained myself. Was this a sample of the artistic goop that’s sitting in my already strange-sense-of-humored soul? And it’s released by hops and barley? I hope not. Old age runs in my family and I’ll need an intact liver.

So I challenged myself. Do it again. Sit your hung-over, no breakfast, caffeine butt down and have a repeat performance. I randomly picked letters of the alphabet and created more original fart definitions. I read the business section of the paper and came up with not-so-politically-correct farts. I walked my dog and thought of farts. I sat in the bathroom while my wife showered; talking so incessantly about farts I had to grab my pen and journal. This stuff was oozing out of me faster than chorizo out of a used car salesman on a laxative overdose. And it was funny.

            Fast forward six months and I’ve found an agent, editor, and publisher who believe in my three-legged humor. Did I think a dictionary of farts would be my premiere literary work? No. Am pleased with myself? Yes, I think so.

And don’t forget, everybody farts. Except Zoey Deschanel, there’s just no way.

Fart Dictionary Introduction

My book, The Fart Dictionary, is slated for release September 2011 by Running Press. Big thanks to my editor for eyeing my oddball humor. The following is an introduction to the book…

Everybody farts, even movie stars. Did you know Jennifer Anniston owns a Fart Machine? True story. Imagine (back in the day) Jen and Brad sitting around a gigantic fireplace in their humongous Beverly Hills mansion…farting at one another? Benjamin Franklin even wrote a book titled “Fart Proudly”. Wasn’t he a fore founding father of our country? And he had time to take out of his busy political career to write a fart book? Makes you think, huh? I guess he was a fore-founding-fart-father of the great U.S. of A. They should change the seventh grade history books. Not to mention the tabloid headlines.

We’ve all experienced the same old fart jokes, antics and social discomforts. But we’ve limited ourselves by hiding it. It’s a human trait we all have in common. Farting. So, readers, I challenge you. The next time you fart, or bear witness a fart, take note of your surroundings, purpose, or social inconvenience. Label it, as I’ve done in The Fart Dictionary. From A to Z, there’s something for everyone. Embrace your farts (not figuratively) and make it a laughable event. And remember, everybody farts. Except Zoey Deschanel, there’s just no way.   

 “…and but a few stems of asparagus may define our impressionable public character…”

 - Benjamin Franklin

 

You Can’t Break My Funny Bone

The following is an excerpt from my current book project

Broke Not Broken or You Can’t Break My Funny Bone: One Couple’s Comical Journey through a Bad Economy with a Big Dose of Humility

…financial ruin. If you don’t know what financial ruin is, then put this book down, go to the library, read anything about Martha Stewart, and think the opposite. Yes, I know she went to prison. I know she developed a bad tic on the left side of her face while incarcerated, but, truth is, she made more money behind bars than on national television. There’s a moral here, I just don’t know what it is yet, but at least you now have a firm grasp of financial ruin.  Let’s mix in three more things: 1) The largest oil spill in history 2) humility and 3) unemployment. The spill probably wouldn’t have affected us so much had we not been living less than one mile from the Gulf of Mexico. It’s hard to ignore an underwater oil slick the size of West Virginia. And, it’s hard to ignore a 20% local unemployment rate. However, it is easy to ignore 200 million gallons of odorless, tasteless, scientists-are-unsure-of-the-health-risks chemical dispersants floating in and out of my patio doorway. I should close the front door to prevent the cross-breeze. In mathematical form, it looks like this:

Financial ruin + oil spill + humility + depressed locals everywhere you go = the book you’re holding in your hands

            But, I promise, you’ll laugh; if not with us, at least at us.