If Buzzfeed were to ever make a list of “Most Immature Blog Titles,” I would have crossed fingers and high hopes that this post’s title would be in the running. Am I proud to have a post with the words “Fart dogs” in it? Absolutely not. Will I be proud to look back in my archives and find a post with the words “Fart dogs” in it? Never. But this, my internet friends, is a necessary post. You see, I have a serious problem.
In my 12 years of parenting I have spent a lot of time trying to come up with alternative swear words so that, #1. I have something to yell in times of surprise or distress and #2. so my children won’t embarrass me by repeating actual swear words. HOWEVER, of all the alternatives available to me (darn, shoot, dadgum, etc) the only one that has stuck with me is “Fart dogs,” which was randomly created in my brain one day. No rhyme or reason to it’s genesis, for some reason my noodle landed on canine vapors as a foul yet safe sounding expletive. My poor children.
Plug your ears Mary Claire. I would tell you to do what I say and not what I do…but in this case, do neither…
Here’s the question though: Are my kids worse off hearing me yell “Fart dogs!!!” when I hit my head on the the corner of the kitchen cabinet door I left open? Or, should I just yell a normal, good ol’ fashioned curse word?
Fart dogs! He fell asleep on the stairs again! Now he won’t go to bed until 11pm!
I exclaim “Fart dogs” so many times a day I loose track. I’m pretty sure the only acceptable amount of times a person should exclaim “Fart dogs!” is zero. And yet, here I am spending a good portion of my day yelling about the flatulence of man’s best friend.
Sure, this sounds like an innocent enough problem, but things aren’t so innocent when the neighbors start to question your grip on reality. Allow me to share with you a real episode in Fart Dogging. The other day, I was taking our recycling from the garage out to the recycling bin, while wearing my nice leopard print shoes. (I’m clearly having a mid-life crisis.) I had let the indoor trash can get a *little* too full (procrastination) because emptying the indoor trashcan requires carrying it all the way to the outside dumpster, which takes at least 30-45 seconds. Allow me to provide a visual…
So, when I picked up the indoor trashcan for it’s once-a-month journey, the heap of plastic sour cream containers, boxes, and butter wrappers went flying all over the place like fake snakes coming out of a trick peanut can. I was left with no choice but to exclaim “Fart dogs!!!!
So, I smashed and stuffed all of the recyclables back into the indoor trashcan, because if they didn’t all fit the first time, I’m *sure* they will all fit now. (Who in their right mind would want to make 2 reasonable trips with the trash can, when they could make just 1 ridiculous trip?)
Well wouldn’t you know, things *kept* falling out, ALL the way over to the recycling bin and I *kept* exclaiming “Fart dogs!” Meanwhile, since the the garage doors are wide open during this Big Hair circus, I am pretty sure my bizarre “cursing” was free to echo out to all the other houses on the street (Hello, Neighbors!)
Well, I wasn’t done with my alternative swearing yet. I had one last obstacle to cross. It turns out, between our back door and the recycling bin was a mound of trash bags filled with grass clippings. Since my hands were filled with a toppling tower of recyclables, there was no way I was going to move the grass clipping bags. So, I just started walking across them, only to realize they had been soaked by the sprinklers. Every step I took caused water to fill my leopard print mid-life-crisis shoes. Additionally, it is a small miracle I didn’t totally face-plant, because it turns out that trash bags filled with grass, then soaked with water are like slippery quick sand. However, the grass-clipping-quick-sand bags were very successful at causing me to again dump more recycling items all over the place. “FART DOGS!!!!!!!!!!”
Don’t worry, it all ended okay, and when the police arrived I just acted innocent and confused; “A lunatic screaming about farty dogs? I don’t know who that could have been….” (Kidding about the police, obviously. People were probably too confused to call the police….”Should we call the police, or maybe a dog catcher…or a psychiatrist?”)
In conclusion, I am afraid for the future. If I don’t change my ways I will most certainly be the weirdest old person in a nursing home. What will happen when I completely loose my inhibitions? Will I just be rolling around the care center exclaiming “Fart dogs!” every time my wheelchair catches on a door jam? People who don’t know me will think I am hallucinating about troublesome gassy pets.
Please. Offer me reasonable alternatives. Save the children.