When You’re in the Mood for a Story

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Potty Talk

Henry Harry Hubert had a problem. He farted. A lot.

This was not a new problem. In fact, lore had it, that right after the doctor pulled Henry Harry Hubert into the world and gave his behind a smack, instead of crying, Henry Harry Hubert tooted. Right in the doctor’s face.

The attending nurse at the time, Nurse Kriminy, never forgot it. In fact, when she was old and grey, she would gather her great-great-grandkids around her and explain, “And he just up and flatulated in Dr. Smerkin’s general direction. I’ll never forget the look of horror on the doctor’s face. His beard almost turned white on the spot! No, I will never forget it.”

Henry Harry Hubert’s mother called his condition an “issue” or “episodes”. Henry Harry Hubert understood these to be bad issues and unsavory episodes based on the sour look his mother’s face exhibited every time she mentioned them. Which was often.

She took him to General Practitioners. And Internal Specialists. And Gastroenterologists. And Nutritionists. And Psychologists. And Physical Therapists. All diagnosed Henry Harry Hubert as a healthy, albeit smelly, individual. And, finally, when she took her young son to a Holistic Homeopathic Naturalist—the last medical-type expert in the tri-state area—she threw up her hands and said, “Well? What do you propose?”

The Holistic Homeopathic Naturalist looked at her squarely and said, “He farts, Ma’am.  I think you’ll just have to deal with it.”

So, deal with it she did. She fed him meals that were both nutritional and bland. She had their family spend as much time out-of-doors as possible. When unavoidable, she chose the loudest restaurant she could find with the strongest smells of garlic available. She limited social interactions to between three and four o’clock—Henry Harry Hubert’s least gassy time of day. Those few playmates kept wondering why Henry’s mother kept glancing over at them anxiously—like she expected something to explode in their vicinity at any moment. When Henry Harry Hubert turned five, his mother decided to homeschool him. “So he won’t be ridiculed by all those children,” she would whisper to her friends.

During this time, Henry Harry Hubert learned a lot. He learned all sorts of synonyms for farting—like flatulation, passing gas, breaking wind, tooting, and the ever delicate ‘poof’.

He also learned many ways to apologize.

“Excuse me.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“My apologies.”

“Deepest regrets.”

“Ever so sorry.”

“Pardonez-moi, s’il vous plait.”

Henry Harry Hubert turned eight at the end of September. At the end of October, Henry Harry Hubert’s mother had an unfortunate gardening incident, which tore her left meniscus and put her leg in traction.

“All will be fine, Mrs. Hubert,” the doctor told her.

“All will not be fine!” Mrs. Hubert roared, all the while glancing at Henry in the corner—it was one o’clock and his intestinal region would be digesting lunch about this time. She watched him like a hawk while she chatted with the doctor.

“All will not be fine,” she repeated. “Henry Harry Hubert has just begun his next school term—who will teach him?”

“Well, surely not you, Ma’am,” the doctor told her. “Your injuries require not only a minor surgery to your left meniscus, which will need ample recovery time, but then you will need to attend to a rigorous physical therapy regime—for both your skeletal and muscular regeneration.” He glanced at Henry, who was busy reading and pretending not to listen. “You know, we have a wonderful public school that I’m sure would have room for Henry. They only started a few months ago. All three of my nieces attend, and they are good, upstanding citizens. All will be fine.”

A loud explosion erupted from Henry Harry Hubert’s backside.

“My sincerest condolences,” he muttered.

His mother lay back on the bed and put her hand over her eyes.

The doctor just awkwardly rocked on his heels and repeated, “Yes, all will be fine.”