Paris Portingale

One of the Best Things about a Long-Term Relationship: Farting

We asked humorist Paris Portingale to list all of the best things about being in a long-term relationship, and then he gave us one.

 

One of the best things about a long-term relationship is you stop worrying about farting in front of your partner. Like, you and your wife and a guy from up the road can be having a conversation about the garbage collection and you fart and the guy says, “Did you just fart in front of your wife?” and you say, “Sorry about that, I didn’t know it was her turn.”

Or, you and your wife and your solicitor can be in a lift and you fart and your solicitor says, “Did you just fart?” and you say, “Well yeah, you think I smell like this all the time?”

You get so used to farting in front of your wife you don’t even think about it anymore. You can be in bed and you fart and your wife comes back from the bathroom and says, “Did you just fart?” and you don’t remember. Farting in front of your wife becomes such a thing that you can fart in front of her, then a second later you can’t even remember you did it. You stop even being aware you farted in front of her. That’s how it can get in a long-term relationship, it’s one of the benefits. A lot of people stay in a relationship just for the farting.

My own farts don’t smell. I know they don’t, I’ve tested it. Of course, my wife doesn’t agree. She’s a wonderful woman, quite attractive and a great housekeeper and mother to our children, but unlike me, her farts smell. You certainly wouldn’t want to play Dutch oven with her.

They smell nothing like my Uncle Rodney’s though. His smell like something crawled up his arse and died. Something like a vole, something substantial. Crawled up there and died from the smell of the previous thing that had got in up there and died, probably from the smell of the thing that had died up there before it. It’s like the circle of life, only with voles.

And I think it’s appropriate that farts come out your arsehole, rather than your ears for instance. It would be amusing, but only for a couple of days. The thing about your arsehole is, it has something called a sphincter, a muscle that stops your farts coming out willy-nilly. You have some control, not a lot, but generally enough to get you out of the conference room in time. Ears don’t have sphincter muscles, in fact none of the major orifices do except the arsehole.

I know a lot of people carry on about what a crappy job God did with the world, but for every shitty thing he’s given us, he’s given us something not so shitty to offset it. We’ve got cancer, but then he’s given us alcohol to take our minds off it. You can get syphilis, but that doesn’t stop you drinking. Same with crabs and herpes. Sure, he’s given us little fish that can swim up the urethra and eat you from the inside, but he’s also given us the anal sphincter to control farting, so thanks for that God, it was very thoughtful.

And while the anal sphincter is an effective piece of work, it does make it hard for people like proctologists. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to get something with a torch attached to the end up your arse, but the anal sphincter is a very good deterrent to foreign objects. You can do it, but I can tell you this from experience, it’s a lot of work. It makes the arsehole pretty much a one-way street. It’s like a traffic cop, right there at the end of your colon.

So, to sum up, with farts and the anal sphincter working in tandem, that area of what philosophers and mental health professionals like to call, The Human Condition, is pretty much done and dusted.

 

Next Week: Smelling Like You’ve Just Pissed Yourself

 

 

Paris Portingale

Paris Portingale is a writer and dog owner. While having a somewhat indifferent attitude towards abstemious self-restraint, he does follow the safe guidelines of four standard drinks a day, although his standards are a great deal higher than most, certainly the medical profession’s. Paris is visited often in the night by God, and the meetings are anything but pleasant.

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