Back in 1963, I was a wine drinking buddy with the editors of the college humor magazine and they asked me to write something (found below) and I did. Looking back, I guess my sense of humor hasn’t changed much over the years or my troubles with self-esteem.
Farter Knows Best
This is the story of my climb to success. I hope that it will serve as example and inspiration to all the downtrodden of America. From low and unpromising origins I rose to success as is only possible in America.
When I was two years old my mother passed the nursery in which I was taking a nap and saw a white vapor, which she assumed to be smoke rising from my bed. —"Help! Help! — She cried — Baby is on fire! She then doused me with several buckets of water. So at a very early age I almost died of drowning which my father often said would, have been better both for the world and myself.
Upon a closer examination, my mother found that I, indeed, had not been on fire. The vapors remained a mystery till later in the afternoon, when she discovered their true origin. Thus my mother had strange hews to deliver to my father when he came home. Father — she said, grasping his hand and gently squeezing it — I have news — what is it beloved wife — responded my father who was a preacher. Father (we must excuse my mother’s language for she was a very plain person) Baby farts colored farts — and so my deformity was made, known to the world.
Ha! Ha! — responded father.
My father did not believe my mother until the next day at church where I again revealed my fatal fault. My father was that day giving a sermon on the innocence and worth of children, when right at the close of his sermon a yellowish vapor began to surround the first pew where I sat with my mother. The yellowish color was due to the Gerber’s carrots I had eaten.
Thus was my deformity made known to the congregation which giggled immoderately, except for the people in the first row who thought their clothes might be stained by the gas. From this day forward my father showed little affection towards me. — I wish — he would say — that the cursed infant had T.B. or cancer or something — there is just no dignity to this. — My father felt that God had turned against him, and then finally he decided that God didn’t exist. And once my mother found my father teaching me how to put cellophane bags over my head.
Father soon after left mother, and then mother left me when one day one of my farts so obscured her vision that she fell down the stairs.
My aunt with whom If- then lived was wealthy and consulted many doctors concerning my case. All to no avail. One man designed a filter, six feet long, which, was strapped to my rear part and was mounted on a tripod with rollers. But the filtering device was quite hard to clean and more than once the thing ran over me going down hills.
By high school I ha developed ‘great sphincter control. Then in order to gain some social status and dignity I went out for ball at which I found I had uncommon ability. I made quarterback. I then confided in my coach, for whom I had great respect, concerning my deformity. He told me not to drink or smoke, and to believe in God, arid that sports would make me a great American, and then he patted me on the back. I had never before met with such understanding. I felt just like one of the guys.
The first game — all was going well, and late in the second quarter we were in scoring position. I. was calling the numbers when due to excitement I lost control and a great fart escaped me. A green ""cloud (spinach) enveloped the line. The halfback, a tall boy, saw over the cloud and successfully evaded all tacklers. The referee called illegal procedure.
The coach quickly benched me. He called me a dirty smart aleck, said I would never be a good American, doubted if I believed in God, and hinted that I was homosexual.
I felt there was no justice in the world.
After high school, feeling I had no dignity anyway, I decided to join the army. In filling out the forms I did not mention my deformity and I might have passed the physical, except that I lost control, just as one of the doctors was examining my anal orifice. — Help! Help! — he screamed I’m blinded! Gasp! Yick! —Realizing he wasn’t blinded, he was amazed. —Hey—he said, thumping me on the back —Do that again — A red one escaped me. —Hey fellows! Hey fellows! Come look! 00000 . . . Ahhhhh … Look at all the pretty colors!
For a while I felt I might be accepted regardless of my defect. They locked me up and examined me. They hoped to use me as a secret weapon. They sent me out on maneuvers, but found that I had much the same faults as tear gas, i.e., I was at the mercy of the wind. Finally they rejected me.
I was terribly dejected, but the army incident had given me an idea. I decided to join a circus. Having persuaded the manager that I was not a fraud, he gave me top billing as "The Phosphorescent Farter." I dressed in a skin tight white suit with a hole cut in the crucial area. To clear up confusion I here admit that my farts are not phosphorescent, nor do they corrode metal or blind like tear gas. Regardless my climb to the top was assured. After my first appearance on "I’ve Got A Secret," I appeared on several variety shows, and I’m now scheduled for the "Ed Sullivan Show."
My climb to the top has been long and arduous, but I have reached it. All you downtrodden take me as an example, and remember there is no justice and all America loves a freak.