He thinks his S#%T don’t Stink, but his Farts tell the Difference

Catalina Mountains, Arizona

Our friends from New York, Rob and Toni, have joined us in Arizona for their Easter Break. One of the agenda items on the Mullen-Smith 2014 Spring Tour, was a visit to Stan and Kathryn, also old friends and colleagues from our days in the International School of Bangkok. We  three couples met in 1992. Yes, we are that old.

John, Toni, Stan, Kathryn, Rob and I

Stan and Kathryn were fabulous hosts. Not only did they open their home to us,

Murphy and Molly, Stan showing John his trap shooting gun, Stan’s wooden handiwork, Kathryn’s stained glass, and the gang post supper.

they fed, entertained and regaled us with stories. Here’s one of Stan’s that I gussied up a little as an homage to his dad, who, apparently loved to throw out Nebraska colloquialisms whenever the opportunity presented itself.

I grew up on a farm in Nebraska. Nebraska summers were hotter than horse piss with the foam farted off. Winters were colder than a well digger’s Asshole. We’re talking cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. Every year, when October came round, my job was to insulate the outhouse with Wonder Bread Boxes.

This very one!

Since I loved to read on the toilet for hours at a time, I was happier than a hog on ice to be assigned this chore. I knew exactly what I needed to complete this task, a tack hammer. My pop just happened to have one. The problem being it was his special tack hammer that he used to resole our shoes. This tack hammer was so special it had it’s very own special hanging place in the shop. No one was allowed to touch that special hammer.

No one.

You need to know a little about my pop. It didn’t matter that he only had a grade six education. He was incredibly intelligent. In fact, he was sharper than a beer fart that cuts through your pants but never harms a stitch. You couldn’t get anything past him.

If I tried, he’d say,

“Stan, every snowflake in a blizzard pleads not guilty.”

If I was being a smart ass know-it-all, he’d sort me out with,

“Son, you think your Shit don’t stink, but your farts tell the difference.”

And if I was being critical, which I always was in grade 12, he commented,

“You show me a man that’s good at criticism and I’ll show you a man that’s seldom good at anything else.”

It wasn’t until I was in Graduate school, that I appreciated the wisdom of his words.

Now back to my story. As a thirteen year old, I knew pop loved his family, but he still scared the Hell out of me. I always took pains to do exactly as he said. That’s why I can’t really explain what happened next.

I touched that special tack hammer.

Not only did I touch it, I took that special tack hammer from it’s special place and began hammering the boxes onto the outhouse wall. The head was slightly loose, but being dumber than shit, I continued to hammer. Son of a Bitch if that hammer head didn’t fly off right into the outhouse hole.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Knowing my dad would be hotter than a popcorn fart if he found out that I touched his special tack hammer, I sprang into action. I tore off all of my clothes and climbed down into that shit hole until I was up to my waist in it. There I was, bare assed naked in waist deep shit, slowly dragging my feet back and forth and back and forth across the bottom trying to find that God Damned special tack hammer. Despite being clumsier than a monkey F@#$ing a football, my foot finally touched it. I felt luckier than a three peckered goat, but my joy quickly turned to sorrow once I realized that I couldn’t hook it out with my foot. It wasn’t until I slid my hand so far down that my face almost touched the shit, that I was able to grab it.

You would’ve thought someone had lit my ass on fire if you saw how fast I shot out of that outhouse. Knowing my luck was getting thinner than a gnat’s ass stretched over a rain barrel, I raced to the crik, dove in, scrubbed and scrubbed, threw my clothes back on, fixed the head on tighter than a nun’s you know what, returned the special tack hammer to its special place and sprinted to the house before my pop was any wiser. As I slipped into the house quieter than a fart in church, I thought I’d gotten away with it all, but my mom stopped me dead in my tracks with,

“Why in the world did you jump into the crik without any clothes on?”

When I was done telling her, her advice was, “Don’t ever tell your father you touched his special tack hammer.”

And I didn’t, not until years later. You know what my pop said when he finished laughing?

“I thought that hammer smelled a little bad.”

That Son of a Bitch couldn’t ever let it go.

And some I couldn’t fit in…

So tall that a woodpecker would get dizzy looking out of a guy’s ass.

Hotter than a fresh f#$%ed fox in a forest fire.

If he were one inch shorter, he’d be a perfect circle.

If I had a dog that looked like that, I would shave his ass and make him walk backwards.

Hungry enough to eat the dead ass out of a skunk.

Sharper than a mentally handicapped child in a group of scientists.

Bloodier than a fresh stuck hog.

The yellow marker for Catalina State Park is the latest. This map is interactive. Check it out here.

Day 205, March 18th, 2014

Shelley and John