So we’re at Santa’s Village, right? We’re riding the ornaments, the ones that spin around the tree, me and Glen, I’m eight and he’s six, I look over and … and … and …

Hey. Listen, Pokey. You’re my kid and you’re all right and everything, but a few more like that and we’re gonna hafta call you something else sides Pokey. Okay? Cause those are some serious farts you’re farting and since technically Pokey no longer fits (seeing as though you’re no longer ‘poking’ around in the womb), we’re gonna hafta call you something else eventually so we might as well come up with something fart-related.

Like Napoleon BonaFart.

I was prepared for the fact that you were gonna foul up a ton of diapers. Poop. Pee. Sometimes both. I like to think I had a fair idea of what was in store. No one told me bout the farts though. All the farts. Wet ones, dry ones, clean ones, lumpy ones, short ones, long ones, oh the farts, so many, many farts. Where are they all coming from?

See? There you go again. Another one. You look right at me, you go still, then a little grunt issues forth, followed by the fart. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Wife-asaurus is peeling a short bit of duct tape off the roll in the other room. But I do know better. We don’t have duct tape here, and if we did, what the hell would Wife-asaurus be doing peeling it. That’s my purview. Sides, she’s taking a nap.

You like farting almost as much as your mom. Should start calling you Fartacus. Or … Gaseous Clay. Or … I dunno. We’ll think of one. Frank-farter? Nah ...

Anyway, so I look over and my dad who is your grandpa is standing along the rails and he signals to me, that I should go high as I can in the …

Another? Where are all these coming fr … oh. Oh dear. That one smelled like it brought along a friend. Oh dear. Is there something in your diaper I should know bout? I think there is. Lemme just go have a quick peek at your nether …

Huh. No. There isn’t. Dry as a bone, clean as a whistle. All you’re doing is farting. What about Gas-pacho. Does that work? Eh. Prolly not. Hafta keep thinking.

So my dad tells me to go high in the ornament. I pull the lever bar thing back, like I’m rowing a boat, like this, and we go real high, which your uncle Glen did not wanna do. He was scared of heights or something, who knows, but he is wailing like a … like a … like a …

Boy, it’s like you want to be called something else. Do you want to be called something else? Is that it? Are you clamoring for us to call you … the Rear Admiral? You want that? Cause we could. Rear Admiral or just Admiral for short. I dunno, but you’re forcing my hand with all the farting. You’re gonna be a real handful when you realize how fun farts are. Soon as you figure out farts are fun, we’re all done for.

Fart-holomew? Nah. That one’s no good.

Anyway, so I’m spinning round with Glen, high as the ornaments will go, he’s wailing like a banshee, my dad didn’t realize Glen would freak out like that, so he starts waving for me to come down, quick real quick before mom comes back, wants me to push the lever bar thing forward, but just as I am about to, I see mom coming up from the concession stand, with a tray of like lemonades or sno-cones, and she didn’t look like a happy mom’s sposed … Another? Really? Another?

I’m gonna ask the pediatrician if all this farting’s okay. I’m sure it is, but just to be sure. They sure do make you happy, though. Look how happy you look. Laying on your back, farting to your heart’s content. If the farts came with poop, we could call you Harry S. Poo-man. Too bad. Or Calvin Poo-lidge. Or Rice Poo-laf. Or …

We’re gonna hafta think of one that’s fart-related.

You know what? I should bring you in to meet Jason. Tell Jason to sit with you for an hour or so, just long enough for him to realize how serious you are bout farting. He’ll come up with a good one for you, lickety-split. He doesn’t mess around, although to hear him tell it, he’s the only one who’s ever come up with a …

Tooty-fruity? No, that’s stupid. I’m in a slump. I’ll just bring you in to Jason. Been meaning to stop by anyway. You know I’ve been off for almost two weeks now? Almost two weeks. Which is a long time. So I’ll bring you in and you’ll knock everyone’s socks off, and you’ll cut the cheese a time or two and Jason’ll come up with a nickname, or he won’t, but him trying will serve as a springboard.

How’s that. Sound like a plan? You, me, boys’ night out on the town? We’ll swing by, but we gotta go after nine. After the dinner rush, such as it is. So … mommy’ll be asleep. Just like she is now. Mommy’ll be asleep and we won’t tell mommy. We’ll get there and back fore she even realizes we’re gone. Then she’ll wake up and be none the wiser. This’ll be just the beginning of a series of great adventures mommy won’t know about, cause she doesn’t need to know bout every little …

(Ow. All right all right all right. Jesus. Scared the crap outta me.)

How long’s she been awake. Did you know she was awake? Thought she was sleeping. What happened to that. You know, you really need to tell me when your mom is sneaking up on me like that. She sure has gotten stealthy. She’s got the element of surprise on her side now. Which does not bode well for us. Does not bode well for us at all.