If Cmog was still working at MI Audio instead of leaving me for a high falutin well paying job at Roland, his finely tuned marketing senses would tell him this was a horrible idea. But here it goes anyway,... please feel free to share and like the MI Audio page to see if I can turn my bodily function misfortune into social media gold. -------- FATHERS DAY AT THE IBRAHIM HOUSEHOLD So apparently, the choice of Fathers Day card at our place was a rather contentious issue. My eldest daughter (7 y.o.) was adamant that the most appropriate card for me was a battery powered card resplendent in 6 colourful buttons. Each button, when pressed, produced a unique version of male flatulence. Her mother, my eternally civilised better half, insisted on something a bit more demure. By all accounts, an almighty row ensued. Screaming could be heard all the way at the other end of our local Target store: I want the FARTING card! You are NOT going to get your father a Farting card for Fathers Day! Its PERFECT for dad! etc. After what must have seemed an eternity for my wife, she put her foot down, and a more toned down card was purchased. The following morning, the aforementioned card was presented to me. A rather displeased looking daughter handed the card over, and proceeded to recount the previous days events. It just so happened that this morning, I was feeling somewhat, to quote a Freddy Mercury, Under pressure. Biding my time till the other members of my family were suitably distracted, I began to consider my inner workings, and to calculate the threshold of the desired conditions for surreptitious relief. These things, after all, constitute a complex, non-linear system. There are many variables, and unknowns. How distracted are the various family members? What is the distance to each of them? What are the acoustic conditions? What do I expect the resultant cacophony to sound like? Depending on the frequency content, what diffraction effects can I expect? What are the prevailing wind conditions? What did I eat the night before, and what can I expect the olfactory repercussions to be? If the someone decides to come in, will there be sufficient time for gaseous dissipation? If there is any residual smell, can I blame a passing canine? So many things to consider. This sort of complexity could win an applied mathematician some kind of prize. Surely a Nobel prize would be on the cards. At the very least an ignoble prize. Craning my neck to check that the coast was clear, I proceeded to position myself for the best outcome. Exerting control and will-power over my pelvic floor, like the perfectly pursed and moistened lips of a double reed player, I set my plan into motion. There was no turning back. I had rolled my dice. To my horror, the resulting acoustic disturbance was truly remarkable. Damn it!, I thought, why did we have to get a fully tiled house? Some carpet would have at least deadened the noise! The problem of acoustic output (which I am sure was setting off some seismic machine in a faraway government laboratory, and would invariable trigger a tsunami warning throughout the pacific) was compounded further by the duration of my trumpeting. But something strange happened to me half way through. I dont know if it was the sheer relief of partaking of this act which binds us all as human beings, but instead of fighting it, I began to embrace it. Was this the joy felt by someone like Joseph Pujol, the worlds first professional flatulist? Was this cathartic experience, with a touch of voyerism, that invisible magnetic force which drew aristocratically moustached gents, and perfectly coiffeured ladies to Mr. Pujols travelling show in late 19th century France? I think I get it now. Building up to my final crescendo, like the last 8 bars of a Wagnerian opus, I let out my last blast. Wow! That was,... Ahem. Who was that? I spin around to see my premier progeny standing there, arms folded, eyes squinting, a great displeasure spread across her face, like the empty plastic beer cups on the floor of the Enmore theatre after a gig. Silence. Dear Lord. Please make this end. After what seemed like an eternity, the expression on her face began to change. Would she laugh at me? Would she taunt me? Rolling her eyes back, she pronounced, with an air of vindication, pffff,... I knew it. That card was perfect. Happy Farters Day.
Posted on: Tue, 09 Sep 2014 22:44:09 +0000