Who Am I?

A conversation with friends this past Friday night challenged me.

We were sitting around at our favorite Houston version of a British pub, where the wait staff is comprised of mostly Rubenesque bar maids who wear cowboy boots with short jean skirts (and really, they shouldn’t) and insist on calling the women “Love” and the men “Guvnah” in these ridiculously feigned British accents.

I’m not sure why we frequent that place.

The food leaves much to be desired. Everything and I mean EVERYTHING has this viscous brown, dare I say use the term “gravy” on it. The most appetizing foodstuff offered are the crackers. And yes, I’m talking about the cellophaned Nabisco dealies heaped in a very pedestrian looking plastic basket placed on every table.

The place is filled with Brits. Loud, drunken, opinionated Brits, who all decide to “unstuff” and “de-stodge” their personalities in one locale. They ALL watch the same soccer game on the 207 TV different screens, affixed to every blank space on the walls. And you constantly hear in the damnedest accents screaming, “Oh COME ON you-NAHT-ted!!! Bloody hell! Buggery bollucks!!!

And then that’s followed by various and sundry expletives.

Brits can cuss a blue streak. I thought broadcasters were bad. Brits make me blush.

Not really, but I felt the need to lie there…for propriety, if nothing else.

In spite of this international insanity contained in a tankard of ale , I do like the beer there and fortunately, the pub’s very British, but Texafied owners have seen fit to chill the stuff. Nothing potable is served at room temperature.

I mean, this IS Houston after all.

But I digress…..

The conversation focused on knowing our authentic selves and would we even recognize that if we ever saw who we ever really were.

Oh yeah, never go drinking with young psychologists.

I was quiet, relatively speaking. I can’t drink because of recent surgery, so I sat back and observed, saying very little. My friends and colleagues don’t like it when I’m quiet. It’s “unnatural”, as they put it. So, they then asked me pointedly about my authentic self and if I knew who and what that was.

All eyes were on me.

I responded “of course, I do, Silly!!!”, then opened my dinner in the cellophane packets in the plastic basket in front of me.

Then dammit, I started thinking: do I know who I am??????

I left a few minutes later and doubt drove my car home.

I walked through the door, pet my shoes, then kicked off my cat (OK, I had a few beers) and promptly sat down at ye olde keyboard to try and figure this out.

Who am I?

Aside from the obvious, I am many people. I’ve had to be various people at various places and phases in my life. I’ve had to be different people to accommodate the different people in my life. But I’ve always had my core values.

I believe in education.

I believe in less government.

I believe in the free market system. Like Ayn Rand, I am a laissez-faire capitalist.

I believe in the concept of family.

I am a woman of my word. I do what I say I will.

If I love, I give. Giving is important to me. I don’t do it to fill a void; it simply helps validate and expound upon what I’m feeling.

I think teachers and nurses are the real unsung heroes on this Big Blue Marble.

My heart bleeds for those forced to live in poverty through no fault of their own.

I am ridiculously fond of dogs and cats and do what I can for their welfare.

So, who am I?

I’m a woman who thinks farts are hilarious!!!


Methane fascinates me, as does it’s bodily exit strategy. I think farts are funny and if more women would be completely honest, they’d admit that, too.

But really, unless you’re a bariatric surgeon or a gastroenterologist or some kink freak who loves a good Dutch Oven, what does anyone really know about methane and the hilarious human process by which it is expelled???

Well, here at Laurie Industries, we’re taking the guess work out of YOUR GAS WORKS.

This is a primer on methane; everything you could possibly want to know about farts.



Flatulence is composed of approximately three-fifths nitrogen, one-fifth hydrogen, one-tenth carbon dioxide, and small amounts of methane and oxygen — all of which are essentially odorless. The odoriferous “joy”we love, loathe and laugh at, comes from trace amounts of other chemicals, especially ammonia, hydrogen sulfide and skatole (excrement…learned a new word, didn’t you????) which people can smell at levels of one part per 100 million parts of air.



Your flatus has a temperature of 98.6, like you, when it’s inside your body, but cools quickly as it flies away from the rectal launching pad at ten feet per second.

Not unlike one of Saddam Hussein’s Scud missiles.

Or an Excocet….



The human colon is just one nasty-ass petri dish.

Dig this: it has at least 395 types of bacteria, but E. coli is the highest-ranking offender. So, experts say this E. coli is a voracious eater. It creates gas by chomping away at the lovely three-course meal you consumed a few hours ago and it then “microfarts” what it doesn’t need. These little farts add up and what you actually expel to the delight of friends and family, is a compilation, if you will, of many, smaller farts. Thanks E. coli!!!! (And you thought that vile bacteria was only found on the unwashed hands of fast food workers and on green onions at certain taco joints!!!!)


You’ve heard of the proverbial musical fruit? Well, why have beans been given that so aptly named moniker? Because Dearies, beans, mushrooms, beer, cabbage and onions create gas because they contain complex sugars that your body simply can’t break down. So, it’s not the pizza per se that gives you the winds; it’s the onions and mushrooms on it, not to mention the beer with which you chug at the same time.


On average, a man with a healthy diet lets out about a quart of gas every day, divided between 10 to 15 farts.

You’ve been found out, PM!!!!!


Women fart slightly less than men, approximately eight or nine times every day, but their gas is more concentrated. So yes, it’s more potent than our penis’d counterparts. (And one more thing, it we ask you if it smells, you must always lie and say “No Babe, not at all!” You needn’t say anything else. The greenish-gray tint to your face and the rolling back of your eyes will be indication enough).


Il mondo del cani.


So, this guy has a crush on this girl and finally gets the nerve to ask her out.

Her calls her up, pops the question and she says yes. The date is on. Two days away in fact and the guy is nervous. He really likes this woman and wants to make a great impression, so he and a friend go to dinner the night before, to talk strategy. Well, the guy and his friend go to an Indian restaurant, a cuisine our hero has never tried before. While he enjoyed the meal a great deal, he woke up extremely gaseous the next morning.

Apparently, curry is not a friend.

He is expelling nasty, vile gross gas and does so all day long.

The day of the date, he wakes up sounding like a Howitzer.

The afternoon of the date…no change.

That evening…it just gets worse.

His stomach is cramping and the wall paper in his bathroom is singed off, but he refuses to break the date. He’s going out with this woman come hell or high water.

So, he goes to the woman’s house to pick her up her father answers the door and announces that his daughter isn’t quite ready. The dad asks him inside to wait.

They sit in the living room and talk a bit.

Duke, the faithful family hound dog enters the room and sits close to our hero’s feet.

Suddenly, an overwhelming gas pain hits his lower stomach. If he doesn’t expel it, he knows he’s going to explode. He sits paralyzed, convinced if he moves, it could be extremely volatile, so he decides to focus; really concentrate and maybe…just maybe…he can let a silent one slip out.

With much effort, HE DOES!!!!

Silent yes.

Deadly? You betcha!

After a few seconds. the stench permeates the room and the dad stops in mid- conversation, sniffs and screams “DUKE!!!”

The guy thinks to himself, “This is great! Her father thinks the dog is farting!!”

A few minutes later, another horrible gas pains overwhelms him., He concentrates and another silent, but gnarly fart fills the living room.

Once again, the father screams “DUKE!!!”

The conversation continues and so do the gas pains. Another one attacks and he focuses and let’s another silent poot out of his Hollywood back door.

As the acrid smell reaches the father’s nostrils and he screams even louder, “DUKE!!! Get away from him before he shits on your head!!!!!”


Mainly because we can and secondarily, because Fido actually farts a lot. He gulps lots of air when he gulps his food and water and that causes him to be quite flatulent.

So, there you go.

Come to Laurie’s blog and you may get grossed out a bit by the very scatological nature of so many of my posts, but by God, you leave smarter.

In this case, at least farty IQ points higher.


  1. I’ve always wanted to be the first to comment on a Laurie Kendrick post. Here’s my chance. I’d better make this good.

    You know, there’s nothing like a stirring tribute to flatulence to “fire up” what could have become an in-depth personal analysis filled with annoying psycho-babble and unwanted self-revelations.

    My college roomate used to wake up every Saturday morning (actually, more like noon), bragging about his Friday evening exploits. Invariably, he would pick up the lighter next to his bedside.

    He would place the instrument in a strategic position, and cast a spark. The sound of a rip-roaring thunderous boom would be followed by a lightening-like flame shooting across the room that amazingly, never caught the drapes on fire.

    Then he would chuckle and ask, “How’d you like that one?”

    To be honest, I never ceased to be amazed.

  2. My husband lit his fart once and burned a hole in my sofa. We gave it back to my mother.

    We had a cocker spaniel when we sisters were mere girls growing up and she would fart and then move away from that spot.

    I don’t know if it’s a vanity thing with me, but after living with my husband for the last 31 years, I still find it hard to do that in his presence and I have had to once or twice. Luckily, they had no sound or smell.

  3. Although Hester and myself are genteel ladies we do have, in private, farting competitions. I am currently in the lead with four good ones in a row, but I am sure she is working on a strategy to overhaul me.

  4. Have you ever ripped a particularly nasty SBD in a closed environment, like a car, and as you wait for the sweet aroma to waft throughout the confines, it’s all you can do to keep from busting out laughing by the time the first poor bastard goes “awwwuuugghhh” and there are tears running down your face, not from the stench, but from the hilarity of making said poor bastard(s) sit in it? I guess it’s an alpha dog thing.

    Extra points if you can keep them from rolling the window down.

    “Poor Bastard” is gender neutral in this context.

    I also find it curious how my farts are funny, but everyone else’s are gross. Who knows what they’ve been eating.

  5. And on knowing ourselves: If I saw me out walking around, I’d probably want to kick my ass. In the Biblical Sense, on the other hand, I now myself well, perhaps better than anyone.

  6. My oh my, here I am wandering through the blogosphere, and I come across this blog for the first time. A friend mentioned it to me.

    So, I’m reading down. A bit ho-hum, pretty interesting, not really grabbing me, then…

    “I’m a woman who thinks farts are hilarious!!!”

    It was a combination of a swift kick in the rear with a huge yank on the funny bone.

    Great stuff!

  7. Maybe others falsely accuse the dog of farting, but not me. At my house I get falsely accused of the dog’s farts. And they are tremendous blasts indeed. Why just the other day my wife’s Yorkie shook the house with one. It’s amazing how much gas a four-pound creature can let loose.

    My wife blames me primarily because her beloved little Princess only does these things when she is in close proximity to me. The truth is that she so feels comfortable and relaxed around me it’s only then that she can let them rip.

    The blame game extends to the children as well. Not long ago I had a cramp in one of my fingers and asked the nearest child to help relieve the pain by pulling on my finger. He refused, and said it was some sort of trick to blame him for a fart.

  8. Here I go again….in the most public but most quiet place imaginable and I’m crying from laughter. I need to stop reading LK in this place. Always gets me awkward stares. I don’t ming though.

  9. This is just toooo funny.
    Everyone is talking about how humans and dogs can fart. Well, you’ll should know a cat can really put us all to shame, not only do the melt everything around you but, their gas can last a very long time.

    LK, I bet little miss kitty has surprise you with her perfume frats?

    And in my early years as young girl (13-16) my 2 brothers use to sneak into my room and frat on my pillow before I went to bed at night. And, here I was blaming my poor cat or our pet raccoon (Pooh-bear) for nasty deed. Yes, farts can be very deadly.

  10. We are BIG “you-NAHT-ted” fans at our little house in the South.

    And speaking of farts, the hit of the office party this year was a remote controlled whoopie cushion.

    My office is a gas. heehee oops He did it.

  11. I have to agree with christine (although, I’m not really sure what a ‘frat’ smells like). I have an 80 pound dog and a four pound cat, the cat can outfart the dog stink-wise, and keep on purring, while the finish peels off the furniture and the air in the room turns babyshit green.

  12. did you read laurie’s prior post-the dispute between her and those two characters? no doubt she was going to win. very interesting reading. hope all is well with you today.

  13. My best man told me, ” the honeymoon is over when she farts in front of you – they (women) usually go someplace to do it at first”

  14. If you hvaen’t already done so, you need to go out to Amazon and buy “The Fart Book” by Donald Wetzel. You might also want to add “The Fart Book II–a Sequal” and “The Last Fart Book”–both by Wetzel, who is to farts what Einstein was to physics. If you’re like me, you’ll want to name your favorite fart a “Wentzel”.

  15. I recently saw something about that book. In fact, I saw it mentioned when I was doing research for this post. Sounds like a hoot…or a poot.

    Might I add, I’m glad you came back, Charlie. I really am!!


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