The Poo And Pee Comedy Show

By Steven Crandell

It stinks. It reeks. It pongs.

And the pongier the better.

I am speaking, of course, about a fart.

Embarrassingly inappropriate. An extension of the putrefaction within. A personal private expression of our innermost offensiveness.

In short, disgusting.

And also a delight.

For to the mind of a boy, anything that offends the senses is a wonder to behold … to breathe in … to savour.

Grownups will deny the existence of human exhaust — refusing to acknowledge what their nostrils know to be true.

Children immediately hunt for the culprit, acknowledging not only the gas-passing but also the creator.
In my childhood, such odoriferous bodily functions provided a daily diet of laughs. The stinkier the fart, the bigger the laugh.

SBD’s were Silent But Deadly -emissions of unknown origin, but devastating olfactory effect.

My mother disparagingly called it “bathroom humour.”

But the greater her disapproval, the more we enjoyed the discussion of anything that came from our bodies and was not acceptable.

The colour of urine after eating asparagus was always a good topic. And anytime burps, faeces or mucus could be introduced during dinnertime conversation, we recognised it as an achievement.

I remember vividly one night when my two brothers and I thoroughly disgusted my older sister with the image of “pus on tap” being sold from the local pub.

All of which is a long introduction .. to something my boys sprang on me a few weeks back.

“Hey Dad,” they said. “Have you seen the latest programme on TV?”

“No,” I said.

“It’s The Poo and Pee Comedy Show.’ They fell about laughing.

Recognising the scatological spirit had magically passed to the next generation, I could only smile.

“What happens in the show?” I said. “First they poo in their face and then they pee in their face.” Again uproarious laughter.

They were indulging in the taboo. Their silliness was their freedom. And the messy human condition was their inspiration.

“Pooing in their face?” I said with exaggerated disgust. “Isn’t that yucky?” “That’s what makes it funny, Dad” There was a pause in the conversation. Then my four-year-old burped.

“How was that, Dad?”

I considered telling him that “that” was bad manners.

But then I considered my own childhood. “Pretty good,” I said.

Next: Rediscovering My Parents