A Cautionary Tail

Donald started sitting in with our band.  At first I was pissed because everything about him was sloppy, including his guitar playing.  He banged away with abandon, juking his head around like a rocker.  We played Irish music, not rock. 

I knew J.J. wouldn’t let just anybody into the band, so I didn’t say anything.  Saying something might lead to several days of stony silence from J.J., which I both resented and feared.

After a few practice sessions it dawned on me: Donald’s wild thrashing was nevertheless in tune and on time.  He provided the solid backbeat the gave our other guitarist, Dave, the room to solo. 

Dave was a respectable flat-picker. 
He also brewed killer ale.  Brewing back then was not the snobbish high tech fad that it is today.

In the ’70’s beer was made the regular way, with a largish ceramic crock, some water, canned hopped malt, regular beer yeast, and a layer of cheesecloth tied over the top to prevent wild yeast, bacteria, mice, and small children from getting in.

Once the beer began to “work,” making a disgusting cap of brownish foam on the top, caring for it became a collective labor among the residents of the house.  Whoever happened to walk by the crock, if there happened to be scum on top, he skimmed it.

But this is not a mere diversion.  The beer was what brought Donald in the first place.  It was at one of the delirious parties at Jacob’s.  Through a thick haze of Morgan’s Ale, his guitar playing seemed outrageous and just the thing.

Once J.J. brought him home to practice, it seemed like a done deal.

Only thing was, he was always doing disgusting things, like eating his boogers.  Jeezis, I cannot stand that type of thing.  If I were the vomiting type, there would have been even more of a mess.

How relieved I was when Donald announced he was going to Ireland to learn to play the concertina!  Thanks to all that is divine!

The night before he was to fly to Ireland, I am sorry to say, he came over to light farts with J.J. 

The Morgan’s Ale was flowing, and the two of them were in hysterics, making torches out of their asses.  I went upstairs to hide.

Suddenly violent screams burst out downstairs.  I ran down to see what the emergency was, and cheeses k. reist if Donald didn’t try to one-up J.J. by taking off his underwear! 

Now Donald had–HAD–a very hairy ass, which went up like a torch when ignited by his gas jet.  He received bad burns to his delicate parts. We transported him to the small town hospital in the back of the car, face-down, butt-naked on top of the sofa cushions.

He couldn’t change his plane ticket, so after his convalescence he booked a flight to Newfoundland.  I secretly snickered at that.  I lived in Maine for a few years.  One of the great Maine forms of entertainment was to trade Newfie jokes, like this one:

“If there are two kids playing in a sandbox, and one of em’s a Newfie, how do you know which one?”

“I don’t know, how?”

“It’s the one the cat’s trying to cover up…”



The moral is, if you’re going to light farts, keep your underwear on.

You’re probably wondering what ever did happen to Donald.

He enjoyed New Foundland so tremendously that he went for a hike in the interior, failing to bring with him any water, map, compass, or any other of the Ten Essentials.  Of course he got lost, was not found for several days. After an extensive search, he was discovered, dehydrated, hungry, and hypothermic.  It gets cold at night above the Arctic Circle.

We received letters from Donald (letters!) every few weeks.  Then the letters stopped.  In a very brief and scratchy transatlantic telephone conversation, Donald related how, by the time he recovered from his case of exposure, the sea ice had locked Newfoundland in.  No ships could get out or in.   Airplanes weren’t flying; it was too cold.  He would be back in the Spring.

Spring came, and no Donald.  Married a Newfie girl, gonna have a little Newfie of their own!

All’s well that ends well.

Just remember what I told you…

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  1. What’s with you and farts lately
    First the dog
    Now Donald
    You even have vomit in there
    Well so much for sand box humor
    I ‘ll be keeping my distance
    And my underwear on
    The Sheldon Perspective

  2. Thank you for the laugh. I needed one today. Haven’t slept all day. Been up since 230. Bipolar life

  3. Hahahaha! Holy cow, I spit water out through my nose. Poor Donald. I wonder if it fixed his furry butt problem for good?

    • Glad you got a larf! And you didn’t even have to watch “Family Guy” πŸ˜›

      I don’t remember Donald telling us whether his ass hair grew back. I kind of think it must have, because J.J. said the burns weren’t so bad, but he did get some of his “bits” toasted–now that sounds like a crunchy cereal, doesn’t it?–and it must have been hard for him to sit down. He must have taken his meals standing up, I would think.

      Ugh, something disagreed with me seriously. My stomach has been giving me a hard time. Making all kinds of interesting noises. Last night I made a recording of them, just to amuse myself.

      • Do you have conversations with your guts? I swear mine ask me questions because the pitch goes up at the end. Sometimes I answer.

        Can you do yogurt or kefir? Might help settle it a little bit. Of course, after it settles the stomach, it might irritate the bowels and you wouldn’t want that.

        • I have been struggling to keep my pills down, so the yogurt will have to wait! I take lactase because I’m so outrageously lactose intolerant. I even have to take lactase with my pills, since lactose is a common filler.

          Wanna hear a joke, except it’s not? In Israel the Imodium type stuff is in a capsule that is made with lactose!!! I’ve been trying to get Teva pharmaceuticals to grok that that’s the stupidest thing in the world, but they won’t listen to me.

          Ha ha, your guts are asking you questions. Of course they are! They’re saying, “is there any way we can make you more miserable?” Fucking guts. If only they’d behave! And I have a stress echo tomorrow, where they make you go as fast as you can on the treadmill, then when you fall down they throw you on the table and do a color flow Doppler before you revive and slug them.

  4. An ass on fire literally. Must have been one hell of sight. Never heard of such a game in my delicate life. πŸ™‚

  5. Poor guy. There he was, doing his best to demonstrate by experiment that digestion produces methane in concentrations higher than the 4.4% lower explosive limit (LEL) necessary to allow explosive combustion in the presence of an ignition source. What did he get for his efforts? Laughter and a singed backside. The guy was a martyr to scientific progress. 😦

    • Wow, thank you for the numbers! I had no idea the percentage needed for an explosion was so small. I’ll keep that in mind when eating beans, which was the source of the necessary gas concentration for that particular fart lighting session.

      I have heard of internal combustion events that occurred during colonoscopy prior to fiber optics, when incandescent bulbs were still in use 😦

  6. Midwestern Plant Girl

     /  May 27, 2016

    Great story! It had everything! Farts, boogers, barf and even some music… what’s not to like? πŸ˜‰

  7. hahahahahahaaaaa! Love your stories..Laura…love ’em!! -alex

  8. Great story, Laura! Love when you reminisce.

  9. Naked flames near the genital areas just seems like a really bad idea to me full stop!! Also, it’s like you never see any bearded fire-eaters do you?

    I guess some folks can only learn the hard way!!


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