The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2 Too

Some of you may recall my blog entry titled “The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2”, which was basically the story of buying and displaying all the wonderful uses of such a device for my sweet wife Marie, who somehow, it turns out, does not find the electronic fart machine and its splendid sound-making capabilities nearly as useful as I.

But c’mon!, what could be funnier? When Auntie Rose is coming for dinner, first thing, you duct tape the fart machine to the bottom of her dining chair. Then, after the meal of Fresh Oregon King Salmon and Garlic Green Beans are devoured, and the Caramel Peach Bread Pudding (or Twinkies Flambe) are on their way, you make some comment like, “Good God that was a rich meal!”, and as Auntie Rose nods her head in agreement, without further adieu, you deploy the fart machine, repeatedly and without mercy, with the remote control in your pocket, which of course, as it sits directly under Auntie Rose’s chair, has begun emiting various and sundry killer fart sounds. At that moment, you get a horrified and shocked look on your face, and announce to your guests, “Well, yeah, I said it was rich, but I didn’t think it was THAT rich!

When I tell stories like this to Marie, as my step-son Blaine stands by with the giggles, she buries her head in her hands, maybe starts singing ”Mary Had a Little Lamb”, loudly, with her fingers plugged into her ears. I am sure it is just a Mars vs. Venus issue, and the fact that many women share a sensitive and sensible side that perhaps some of us men lack. But it’s ancient. I mean, when you are hunting the Tundra, and you finally bag a Woolly Mammoth, which will keep you and your family alive for months, isn’t it just so natural to sit around the campfire, way out there on the ice, and while you are wolfing down a seared, rare chunk-o-mammoth, rip off a few nice tear-ass creepers for your buddies to enjoy? Ancient men may have been short-lived, and had bad teeth, but surely they had a sense of humor! "Ayno, you boor!", one of them may have quipped, sinew in his cheek, "stop pulling Gargon's finger!"

Let’s just say, that approximately 105% of my male friends love The Remote Contolled Fart Machine No. 2, and if you sit it before one of them, just have them sit there, and begin to play the sounds, their reaction is not going to be one of dismay. It will take them maybe 3 seconds to start laughing, and then they will pick it up to examine it, and look at you with great wonder, and say, “Where, oh where did you get THIS?

But I don’t want you to think I have a deaf ear when it comes to my wife’s druthers regarding the fart machine. I mean, when Blaine and I discovered a little cubby hole up under our main dining table, and put the fart machine there, and left it there for many months, through dinner parties and other functions, we never once unleashed its delicious sounds onto anyone, all, of course, in deference to the lady of the house, who likely stood ready to clobber us, anyway, if we had. I continue to share it with my male friends, occasionally, (though I admit the newness has worn off), and it has been quite some time since Marie’s sensitive soul has heard (or seen) our little black box of joy.

So it came as a bit of a surprise, last night, at about 3 a.m., while slumbering way down deep in REMland, that I was awakened by the strangest sound, one which, in my stupor, I did not initially recognize, coming from the direction of my dresser top. But it was a loud and obnoxious sound, and I immediately sat up on the edge of the bed, right before stubbing my toe on the bed post, as I basically dove headlong toward the dresser. When I reached the dresser, I took one glance at my toe to see if I was bleeding, and then moved on to the more important issue of locating the source of the sound. I’m sure you have figured out that the sound in question was emanating from The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2, (aka The Boom Box Blaster), and as I stood before my dresser, I finally realized, all tired and toe throbbing, that the little black box was stuck on fart. Or I should say, given to the amazing skill employed by those who created the machine's audio track, stuck on juicy fart. Then, even in a near dream state, it occurred to me that the little plastic remote control switch must be lying somewhere nearby, with a shoe on it, or maybe had fallen between the springs and the mattress on the bed, something, that would keep this thing farting continually and without fail. I picked the fart machine up, to discover that I was absolutely correct in my "annoying sound" sleuthing, since it became much louder as I drew it toward my face for a closer listen. All this time, of course, I am working like a beaver to hopefully remedy the situation before Marie wakes fully and sits up in bed and says, oh maybe something like, “what the fuck is going on?”

Being a baker for so many years, I know how to wake up fast, and so, in a second or two, I had removed the thing to my office/studio, where I keep a small phillips head screwdriver in my top desk drawer, just the right size for removing those little screws like one might find on a fart machine battery compartment. Shortly after, I had removed the battery and the sound stopped. I returned to bed, and laid there for, oh, maybe two hours, all wide awake, and tense, and injured, and dwelling, with my zenless monkey mind, on what I might write about such an experience.

Some minutes ago I located the remote contol, which was unencumbered, and apparently had nothing to do with the glitch. But after replacing the 9 volt battery in the fart machine itself, all is well, and The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2 works great once again, which I am certain Marie will be delighted to hear.



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