My son is ten, and recently he asked me something about racism.
And in the middle of it, he farted.
“Dad, with racism, are there like, y’know, different typ—BRRRRRrrrrRRRRppp.”
Breaker of winds, first of his name, my son has no self-consciousness about producing some natural energy. For him, the sound of flatus rippling flesh is a precious gift, an “easy button” for laughs when bored. Of late, he has taken to using his booty as a weapon, pointing it at me and firing whenever I do something he doesn’t approve of. Say, “iPad time is over,” for example, and blocka-blocka, he lets his nine-millimeter heinie spray that potent tear gas. Give him Nacho Cheese Doritos instead of Cool Ranch for a snack, and you’ll receive a rapid-fire rat-a-tat-tat rat-tat-tat.
