Multiculti Farting

Since I was a kid I always look forward to a visit to San Francisco’s Chinatown. The food is an attraction but the bigger pull is the ever changing assortment of novelties sold by sidewalk vendors. I have fond memories of super-realistic plastic barf, dog doo, exploding pebbles, and of course bottle rockets and firecrackers. The product of the moment is the Fart Bag, sold at the irresistible price of 5/$1.

The foil pouch contains about a tablespoon of sodium bi-carb and sulfur, plus a small plastic bag with a teaspoon of citric acid solution. To activate the Fart Bag, you squeeze the pouch until the liquid packet bursts, then place the unit near your target (another 11-year old boy or any convenient family member). The expanding gas pops the pouch and (allegedly) leaves a farty smell hanging about.

I say allegedly because the liquid packet was impervious to my squeezing attempts. Not wanting to stink up the rental car or the hotel room or my luggage, I never got around to a successful test farting. Has anyone deployed one of these babies? Lemme know.

Meanwhile, via Drudge: “For Marines in Afghanistan: Be careful where you fart.” The story appears on the Military Times site:

audible farting has been banned for some Marines downrange because it offends the Afghans.

I know there are many things in the Afghan culture that don’t seem normal to Americans and it’s hard to spend seven months working in someone else’s back yard. Still, the Marines I saw downrange are doing a pretty good job at trying to do the right thing around the Afghans.

They’re not supposed to cuss because it could be misunderstood (that one goes out the window a lot). And they stay away from talking about politics, religion or girls because those topics could escalate into major disagreements (they can’t communicate anyway because of the language barrier).

But farting?

Sigh. The Department of Defense has shown alarming signs of political correctness, but this would seem to take the cake. The Military Times comments section makes for amusing reading: a lot of current and retired military folks and their family members give the new anti-farting policy the razzing it deserves. A few examples:

Michael Says:
August 24th, 2011 at 12:25 am

I have to ask….what disciplinary action does UAF (Un-Approved Farting) carry these days???

Fart Knocker Says:
August 24th, 2011 at 2:59 pm

Just release at the same time as a .50 burst. Then the requisite denial, of course.

J.B. Says:
August 25th, 2011 at 12:12 pm

Next on the quartermaster’s list, order 5,000 GI Butt Plugs.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Smell…

Jason Prather Says:
August 25th, 2011 at 8:05 am

I will tell you why, if you promise not to think me racist, or laugh too hard, according to the Hadith, one of their ‘Holy Books’ in the section Sahih Bukhari (1.4.137) writes that Allah will not accept a Muslim’s prayer if he/she passes wind during the ritual. The exception occurs if the worshipper farts silently, or the fart does not smell. I wish I were making this up! If they have gotten so intolerant of our soldiers, perhaps they should try to free their own country, and their precious Allah can do it all himself!

Jason Prather’s claim checks out.

Ablutions (Wudu’)

Volume 1, Book 4, Number 137:

Narrated Abu Huraira:

Allah’s Apostle said, “The prayer of a person who does ,Hadath (passes, urine, stool or wind) is not accepted till he performs (repeats) the ablution.” A person from Hadaramout asked Abu Huraira, “What is ‘Hadath’?” Abu Huraira replied, “ ‘Hadath’ means the passing of wind from the anus.”

OK, then! But the DoD goes from an Islamic rule on do-overs during prayer to telling Marines not to fart around Afghans in public—an extrapolation that pretty much defines the PC mentality.

But You’re So Close to New York City!

Damned hurricane bumped me out of my aprés vacances posting groove. Five hours this morning bailing water out of the basement of FirstNerve Manor. Knees so stiff I could barely make it up the stairs. Time to go horizontal on the couch with some Motrin as we get lashed by the last turn of Irene’s pinwheel.

Be back later with some fart material.

For the blog.

Don’t give me that look. You know what I mean.

Working at the Car Wash (Yeah!)

A glimpse into the psychology of consumer scent preferences.

[Baby powder?—Ed.]

[Must be a Canadian thing . . .]


[Careful, they can get touchy up there.—Ed.]

[He’s just a cartoon.]

[Not him, him.—Ed.]



[Like I said . . .]

Taking a Sniff of the Big Apple

A month or so ago I walked the World Trade Center subway station with amNewYork reporter Marc Beja who covers the paper’s transit beat. Tracking malodors is harder than you might think: they can be wafted blocks from their origin and there often is no clear concentration gradient to follow. But I was optimistic on this ripest of hot summer afternoons, especially after previously hitting the malodor jackpot on Broome Street with Molly Young of New York Magazine. Unfortunately, Beja and I didn’t pick up the obvs urine notes that many morning commuters complain of in the WTC station.

[BTW crouching over puddles of subway water and gesturing while one guy takes notes on pad and another takes photos draws stares even from hard-boiled NYers. I think there’s a Jack Ass mini-episode waiting to be written . . .]

So yesterday, when a transportation advocacy group released poll results identifying the city’s smelliest station (138th Street in the Bronx), Beja gave me a call for comment. Compared to the other people he quoted—the advocacy group’s exec. dir., a union boss, and a characteristically blunt Bronx resident—I sound like Mr. Reasonable Milquetoast.

Hey, I call ‘em like I smell ‘em.

You gotta problem with that?

Time to Wake Up and Smell New Jersey

I’m back.

A glorious California vacation ends in Newark airport. The inevitable letdown has its own smell: an unusual fishy/shrimpy odor on the I-78 connector to the Garden State Parkway, and two different skunk episodes in the suburbs on the way back to FirstNerve Manor.

Still, I can inwardly savor the food, drink and smellscapes of Sonoma, S.F., Berkeley, Coloma, Guerneville, Santa Cruz and the Yolo County Fair (don’t knock it—the Woodland FFA makes the world’s best tri-tip sandwich).

My home state is a paradise but it is coming apart at the seams.

I don’t want to dwell on that now.

Maybe later.