My eight-year-old has hit that magical milestone. Yes, you know the one all boys must
eventually reach. It’s that wondrous age
at which one thinks hineys are hilarious.
The butt of all jokes is ... the butt.
It’s become a routine for us at bedtime now. He crawls under the covers as I search out
tomorrow’s outfit (because neither of us are good in the morning for such
momentous decisions). I find his socks,
underwear, jeans, and determine which shirt he will consent to wear. Then I turn around to discover my son’s Hanes
brief-clad rear waving in the air. Happy
giggles ensue the moment he sees he has my attention.
“Say goodnight to the butt,” he cheerfully invites me.
Ah, my son. The wonder of your
usual brilliance has been eclipsed by your moon.
I doubt he’ll grow out of finding such things hilarious. Men rarely do. Even great geniuses can’t seem to deny
themselves the juvenile thrill that is crack comedy. A trip to the Sistine Chapel will inform you
of that. The great Michelangelo himself could
not refrain from having God moon the pious.
Fart humor is why women love romance novels, I think. Because no male in the real world outgrows
the glee of contributing such moments with those he’s closest to. It’s encoded in their DNA. So we are subjected to husbands’ and lovers’
delight in sharing their gaseous gifts.
We women dream of a world where the masculine half of the species
denies his base urge for funny fannies and the wazoo wit they produce. No romance or erotic fiction hero gives his
beloved the Dutch oven treatment. He
usually doesn’t do anything with his bum except parade its sculpted
perfection. It exudes beauty and nothing
else. We sigh with delight and not
disgust.
My son has begun his journey into the world of real-life men,
though. All I can do is apologize in
advance to the significant other in his future.
Honestly, I had nothing to do with this.
Well, except for the giggling at the sight of him waving his butt in
the air. It is pretty funny.
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