Body Odor

I just got back from taking a tablefull of clients out to dinner. These are wonderful people I cherish and respect, classy guys and gals who burst through life in a splash of positive energy. We ate well -- too well (six of us spent $400 in a place where shorts and sandals were ok) -- and talked ever more enthusiastically about life, business, the world and the universe. They're all the same thing to these extraordinary people.

At the end of the evening we stood to leave and as I rounded the back of the table where I'd been sitting I wandered into a freshly laid and very pungent fart cloud, obviously left by the tiny bird-like woman who dined on my left. This lady is beautiful, brilliant, sophisticated and successful. She virtually held court at our table tonight, commanding the enthralled respect of the group more than anyone else -- and this was a table of heavies. Yet she laid this noxious bomb as she stood to leave. Like the thoughts you have when your beautiful new baby craps the most horrendous sludge all over the place, I thought, 'How could such a lovely and delightful creature make such an awful smell?'

I held my face stoic, immovable, like the face of a palace guard on duty. From outward appearances, no one could suspect what was going on inside of me: 'Wheeeuuuueee! Mama just dropped a neutron bomb, I'll tell ya! Sheeeewuuuweeee! Somebody light a match!' Like me, she showed no acknowledgement or hint of recognition of the vapor cloud that enveloped the two of us as we walked away from the other diners still shovelling and chewing.

Our bodies are amazing, aren't they?

Our customs are even more so, don't you think?

I remember Stuttering John on Howard Stern's show. Now: I really don't care for Howard. He's too slimey for me, too gratuitously grab assey for my taste. Oh, Hell: he's a flaming paper bag filled with shit left on broadcasting's doorstep by a pimple faced hooligan who rang the bell and ran away. He's a butt-hole sniffing six year old hiding under the pool table of life with his neighborhood pals. He's some old drunk's dried vomit on a dark and steamy sidewalk at the edge of the French Quarter. He's what's left in the sink after the catch of the day is cleaned.

But Stuttering John . . . . Stuttering John is hilarious. He'd go out with a camera crew and michrophone, usually to some high visibility event where celebrities were sure to show, stick the mic in the celebrity's face, stutter awhile then blurt out some horrible unexpected and utterly inappropriate question. I'll never forget the time he found Imelda Marcos at some Black Tie soiree. He shoved his michrophone in her face and said:

'Hey, Ms. Marcos; D-d -d - du- di-dij- ij- ij -dudja -en en didja en en en en en . . . . Didja ever fart and blame it on the dog?'

The slightly delayed melting of Imelda's smile, the slowly dawning look of shock and horror on her face was priceless. That 20 second film clip must be enshrined in the broadcasting hall of fame somewhere.

Tonight I looked around the restaurant but saw no dog to blame. Instead I saw a dozen or so elderly eaters in the crowd, each glancing around and wondering if they'd done it or if it came from one of their neighbors . . .

I saw table on table of yups and wannabees with scrunched brows trying to decide if it was the food, the beach or (oh, my, god) someone at their table.

I saw waiters scrambling for the kitchen.

Now: what would it have been like if we were all free to do and say what was really on our minds? Here's how it might have gone:

Her: Ooops! ha ha giggle giggle.
Me: Damn! Did you just drop one?
Her: Sorry; giggle giggle
Fashionable vixen: Oh . . . . My . . . . . God
Old lady next to her: Oh, thank goodness! I though it was me.
Young Fop in sunglasses on the other side: Well, I'm glad it's not the sushi.
Waiter: Gang Way! I'm outa here!
Her husband: Anybody got a match?
Then, spontaneous applause and laughter from those seated near the offending event -- the kind that occurs in cafeterias when someone drops a tray.

And farts are just he half of it. Think of all the other disgusting things that ooze and fly out of us . . . and the forbidden pleasure we take in them when we are alone.

I know a guy who unconsciously sniffs his finger after picking his ears. He looks to the world that he's sampling a wonderful rose. And I don't think he's even aware that he's doing it.

I remember a fellow in high school who would squeeze a zit, roll it in his fingers, smell it and then (get ready) eat it. He didn't fare well socially.

And then there was Tanner -- The King of All Booger Eaters. He was in the movie, 'The Bad News Bears.' Remember it? His passion for nose candy was so great that the other kids actually called him 'Booger Eater.' I believe that was the first time in the history of film that a booger was consumed on screen. You Go, Tanner.

There are the executives who emerge from the men's room with a nice spot of pee on their pants; and the ones you can't look in the eye because you know you'll be distracted by that hair growing out of the various orifices on their faces; the guy in the office next door whose breath wilts fresh flowers . . . and on and on.

Of course, I have no problem with any of this. For me, the acid test of any human behavior is how one of our cave dwelling ancestors might have reacted -- and I seriously doubt they'd have given a shit. I believe early man was a lot closer to the true essense of our species than we are today . . . And for them a smelly burp in the face may have been delightful.

When I got married it didn't take long for me to relax enough to allow a little squeeker or two out around my wife. She was shocked and embarrassed at first but quickly covered her discomfort with a giggle. Truth is she wasn't shocked or embarrassed at all; she was just frozen in indecision about whether to restrain her inner desire to burst into full laughter and race for the door. It didn't take long for her to relax sufficiently in our private world to do just that; or to punch me in the arm or call out, 'Jazz just farted!' Soon she was cutting the cheese like an old pro herself. Fumes became a welcome part of our marital bliss, our partnership of fun. I remember laying in bed reading with her, letting one fly beneath the sheets, then pulling them up and over her head. I remember her doing the same to me.

Wow; we've come a long way. People fart on TV now. They guy who made 'Supersize Me' is shown barfing up a Big Mac in the middle of his movie. Way back in the 70s, 'The Groove Tube' showed actual human turds falling with a splat in moviehouses across the country. And some people don't believe in progress!

A friend sent me a clip the other day of a commercial for a Mexican Restaurant in Austailia. I think it says it all, so turn up your sound, click this link, and . . . enjoy:

Jamochas