Sniff More Stank To Smell More Roses

“That in digesting our common food, there is created or produced in the bowels of human creatures, a great quantity of wind. That the permitting this air to escape and mix with the atmosphere, is usually offensive to the company, from the fetid smell that accompanies it. That all well-bred people therefore, to avoid giving such offense, forcibly restrain the efforts of nature to discharge that wind.”
–Ben Franklin “Fart Proudly (or A Letter To A Royal Academy)”

When addressing matters of waste disposal amidst the nation’s vast lavatory network, The Bastard directs an approving fist pump to those lacking in human empathy. And while your fearless author can tally his lifetime public evacuations on one hand, his rule for anti-compassion dually extends into the private sanctum. Namely, while seated atop the porcelain throne within your own tiled fiefdoms – whether dropping kids off at the pool, bombing a small city, or launching a full-scale nuclear attack – reliance on the courtesy flush should be wiped (with a cushy two-ply) from your psyche. Likewise, the exhaust fan, prissy tool of the fragile and weak minded, must be physically destroyed whether by acute disabling or violent machismo; never to again freshen air in your claustrophobic rabbit holes. This much I expect.

To paraphrase the Urban Dictionary, a “courtesy flush” occurs when a spry Tooting Tom flicks his wrist against the toilet lever (sometimes in panic, but often in a state of zen calm) at the exact moment of aquatic impact. If perfectly timed, one’s deposit plummets into a swirling vortex of non-potable water; breaking the speed of sound for those with burrito-chafed asses. Said flush is also an egregious faux-pas. If you can’t be trusted to let your bouquet waft from room to room without committing seppuku, face buried in dishonor, then you can’t be trusted to relieve yourself in civilized quarters. In other words, sprout some hair on your chest and grow up. Or use the shed out back.

Stripping aside the ability to reason, homo sapiens are simply bipedal apes, sharing 95% of DNA with our knuckle dragging friends. And like other creatures, humans have been marking terrain since a prehistoric Hurk first set fire to his enemy’s mud hut and procreated with the residual females. Modern territoriality, however, is a passive-aggressive creed undertaken with property boundaries, taxes, and locks. But deep in the recesses of the brain, beyond the pansy cultural niceties ingrained at childhood, is a wolf intent on ruling his lair; enclosing himself within a circle of steaming piss to demarcate ownership and exude dominance over neighbors. Be not mistaken, the stink of one’s spoils should be celebrated threefold: as a warning to impetuous prowlers, a celebration of health, and a sexual battle cry drawing together the coital yearnings of both sexes. Like a writer at odds with phrasing, or a musician unsure of pitch, there can be nothing more vertiginous than a person embarrassed by their own stench. It's a natural odor. Why get your knickers in a twist when they’re already slung around your ankles?

If one is to thrive in the melting pot of America, one must stew in every ingredient of its malodorous cauldron. Our country was founded on idealism, on debate, and on democratic overhaul of a system which failed its colonists and fouled its citizens through nepotistic royalty. For the free exchange of ideas to continue, it is imperative that we unblock all senses and remain open to all stimuli. Should a man wish to argue an unfavorable opinion, his right to offend exists firmly in the constitutional alloy. Moreover, should a man wish to express himself on the high bowl of waste dumping, then let that man be heard in both grunts and aroma. Should he prepare his thesis via dutch oven, then allow that proposal to cook pungently at extreme temperatures. When we censure each other, we condemn the very pillars of opportunity which drew our impoverished kinfolk across oceans many generations ago.

That flush lever is an oppressive temptress. Empower yourself. Rip it off.

Seven Years

The subway prophets spew knowledge and nonsense, unsolicited in the tunnels underground. At times absurdly humorous, but more often militant or scripted, their paeans to God, instructions toward repentance, and reminders of homelessness are ever-present in the sidewalk cellar, competing for attention alongside vermin and peddlers. Last week, the token Caucasian caught my ear with his religious fearmongering, warning of damnation in a city proud to be damned. Plastered across the chest of his navy sweatshirt were the words “Risk All,” while “Fear God” adorned the back in chunky block letters. And like most of the mentally unstable brethren who pay their $2 to entertain and educate, our friend warned of final judgment, his speech authenticated with fire-and-brimstone scripture. Seven years was all he offered. Not a long timetable nor a generous gift, but a manageable frame in which to alter perspective.

Both an eternity and an eyeblink, seven years can encourage remarkable variance – shifting the patchwork of family, career, and personal growth – where the obvious becomes opaque and the expected turns inside-out. Yet as easily as it races, time can mark a flatline where weeks compound to months which drag to years; a glut of opportunities trashed, where the same cup of coffee and the same crossword clues rotate insipidly. In seven years, will you accept your given hand due to economics or exhaustion? Join a cause knowingly or fight a war mindlessly? Retreat greedily or sacrifice needily? Love dearly or hate severely? Discover wealth and lie for it? Take a stance and die for it? Would you change only because you were scared? Or enrich your morals just to be spared?

When the rent is due but jobs are scarce, our subterranean louse withdraws from the labyrinths beneath Seventh Avenue and retreats to an idyllic Main Street; flag lined, sepia drenched, and worlds removed from the urban rot of the rat traps. This cowardly homecoming is pardoned by the same parents whose bank account he raped with impunity. Prophets in their own right, mom and dad have left his bedroom untouched, foreseeing the return of their son, the failed apostle. Aborted by urbanity, excommunicated by progress. Still fearing God but risking nothing. A charlatan. A sham. A waste of seven years.