Fantastic Flatulence

Just after the turn of the century, I had my first colonoscopy procedure. In those days, you took a series of special drinks and pills that completely emptied your digestive system before the procedure.

After they put you out with anesthesia, they pumped air into your bowels so the camera could spot any signs of polyps or cancer.

Everything went fine and I was in the recovery room trying to wake up. The recovery area was a large room with maybe a dozen beds, separated by rolling, curtain walls that created a little semi-private spot for you and a loved one.

I was wallowing in that never-never land between sedation and consciousness, when a nurse came by and pulled back the curtain.

I looked up at her in my stupor and without a smile she said, “Have you farted yet?” I guess my look of confusion led her to explain. “You’re full of air. If you don’t fart, you can’t leave.”

I suppose subconsciously, I had been holding the air in, but with my new directive, I let it go.

It started out like a regular fart, with a medium tone and average volume. But after a couple of seconds, it began to morph into something else.

A crescendo of sound was followed by diminuendo, then another crescendo. The tone was also changing and I realized that I was producing something very, very special.

Being a normal, red-blooded Texas male, I’ve spent a lifetime analyzing, studying and categorizing my own flatulence. With ample time on male-only trips on sailboats, playing golf and hiking, I developed the skill to let it go, avoiding that instinctive, reactionary clinching that would truncate the symphony of sound.

This was passing anything and everything I had done previously, including that unforgettable event in Mexico when I was nineteen. As the fart continued, I began to rate this masterpiece.

Still in mid-fart, I thought about the Guinness Book of World Records. I wondered how they would quantify the “Greatest Fart of Human History”. Would it be purely on the longevity? Would tone and variety weigh in? Would it be judged by a panel of experts and what, pray tell, would constitute a fart expert?

After what seemed like an eternity, it came to a close. I felt the smug satisfaction that comes with true accomplishment. Even in my drugged and dopey condition, I broke into a broad smile.

I first glanced at my wife, then looked up at the nurse. I expected a look of astonishment, perhaps awe. Maybe she would fall to her knees and genuflect instinctively. I could imagine her calling out to her co-workers, “Kathy! Sherry! Jim!, you can’t believe what I just heard!”

Instead, she looked at me without a smile and said, “That’s better. But, you’ve got to keep it up.”

To say this busted my balloon, would be a gross understatement. While I thought possible fame and riches might be near, I was relegated to the Ho…Hum of the ordinary.

As it turns out, the recovery room was full of people expelling air at a fantastical rate. It was a veritable Mormon Tabernacle Choir of odorless flatulence.

My premature assumption of access to Andy Warhol’s 15 minutes of fame, was actually only about 15 seconds and then became an insignificant and inconsequential “poof!” in a room of nuclear explosions.

The colonoscopy process has changed over the years and filling a patient’s bowels with copious amounts of air is apparently no longer necessary. I understand that modern medicine must move on, but have we not lost something here?

As a male of the species, I miss the opportunity to have a five-year shot at producing a truly noteworthy effort. Something out of the norm. Something that makes you feel good about yourself…if only for a bright shining moment.

Jay