My Brother’s Farts Got Me in Trouble
Dad’s anger over Scot Butwell’s toots, and what I’ve learned through it
To the King of Farts, the Fart Master, the Farting Machine,
Nobody can rip booming, sonic fart on cue like you, the Fartman! Aka Scott Fartwell. Always producing “fart attacks.” May you one day find your Queen of Farts. Ha, ha.
So eloquently written atop page one of Scot Butwell’s 1985 South High School Olympiad yearbook. And hardly the lone reference to Scot’s flatulence. Six different scribblings speaking of Scot’s scorching stinkers.
Scot had the uncanny ability to lie on his back, raise both legs over his head — ass extended — take a deep breath at several various entry points — then magically and musically exhale, and blow out pungent gas.
Pffffffffffffffffftttt!
Classic high-school potty humor. Unless, of course, your dad grabs your yappy yearbook. And reads it out loud to his senior big brother late one cloudy afternoon in usually sunny Southern California.
“Mike, is he proud of this?” Dad asks red as a tomato.
Why is he asking me? I think.
Scot, of course, is nowhere to be found.
So, I’m getting chewed out and ripped a new ass for, well, Scot’s ass.
Then, I felt my anger building up, grabbed my car keys, jumped in my cheesy green Gremlin, revved up the engine, and bolted out of the neighborhood. A hot, volcanic mess.
I was running away — sort of. Literally and figuratively. I drove to my friend, Jay’s house and stayed for roughly three hours. I decided it was a dumb move, and returned home where I was yelled at more, grounded, and retreated to my room turned on the radio, as “Shout” by Tears for Fears so fittingly was playing.
The missing car door
Ah, another magical Friday night in the Butwell household. I had a couple of beers, hit a few parties with the fellas, and — bed spinning — was sound asleep.
Not Scot?
At 1:34 a.m., an hour a half after curfew, our fuming father comes thundering into my room ranting and waking me, wondering the whereabouts of my sophomore brother.
“How the hell do I to know”
Once again, Dad’s frustration and anger are taken out on me. This time I take out my headphones, put my AC/DC vinyl record on the turntable, place the needle on “Back in Black” as my anger too starts to reach a boiling point.
Ah, a mere, oh, 33 minutes later, Scot comes sauntering in the front door to a crowded house of family members, wondering what words will wiggle out of Scot’s guilty mouth.
Scot’s interesting and thought-out excuse?
“The car door came off?”
Whaaaaaaat?
That’s an original one. To this day, not sure if it’s true or urban myth.
Oh, I almost forgot to mention. Curious Exhibit A: mysterious, revealing black, worn pantyhose under the passenger seat that was found the next afternoon.
Hmmmmm …
Or How about the Hawaiian hookup?
It’s the summer of ’85, and our family is taking a much-deserved summer family vacation to Waikiki Beach in Hawaii.
Scot and I decided to hit the local, late-night dance clubs. “Somebody’s Watching You” by Rockwell booms throughout the club. Scot, normally the shy introvert meets a girl. Myself, usually the outgoing extrovert does not.
Scot leaves the club with said girl, and goes, well, I don’t know where they go.
And, well, you get the routine by now, I’m woken (again) in the middle of the night to the oh-too-familiar line, repeat with me, “Where the hell is Scot?”
Dad furiously, frantically shouts, as steam is exploding from both ears resembling Yosemite Sam getting fooled by Bugs Bunny.
“Do you have any idea where he could be?” my dad wonders.
Probably making out with this babe by the beach is the thought that pops in my cranium as I’m being screamed at, but I’m afraid to reveal.
Dad, however, is fearful Scot is left washed ashore on the vast Pacific Ocean. Murdered by the infamous, drug-smuggling Hawaiian Cartel. Or taken captive by a band of not-so-merry, pillaging pirates on their way to Japan.
Police, of course, are called. The polite and calm officers assure us, “this happens all the time” and that “they’re usually just somewhere on the beach”
Which is exactly where they were.
“We call it ‘maka ‘i ka’i’ . It means Hawaiian hookup,” the portly older officer said.
Aha, I was right, but I keep my thoughts concealed.
At 3:16 a.m., a slight jingling sound is heard. The doorknobob slowly turns. The hotel door creaks open ever so deliberately. Inches at a time. Finally, revealing shocked and wide-eyed Scot attempting to sneak in like a cat burglar caught in the act.
Intimidating, angry, devil-red Dad stands glaring, arms folded. A death stare. Bobby Knight anger in his eyes
“Where the hell have you been?”
Calm and cool as a cucumber, Scot replies, “Sorry, I got lost finding my way back to the hotel”
Wow! He’s good, I thought.
What I’ve learned
Reflecting back at this part humorous and part damaging childhood stroll down memory lane, I find myself holding no ill will towards my brother Scott. Hell, I did lots of dumb stuff, too (often not caught, however). I figure it’s all part of growing up and being confused adolescent.
Back then, I assumed maybe this was just part of being the oldest child.
However, as for my dad. It did affect our relationship, as I never felt I could open up to him and tell him how he made me feel when he’d yell at me for something I didn’t do. I had this inner anger I never let go of for how he’d get mad over things I had nothing to do with.
Recently, our middle child has screamed and hollered profanity-ladened outbursts at us for being horrible parents, ruining his childhood, and favoring our other two siblings.
I was also too afraid to ever speak back to my dad, but it makes me wonder if my son’s anger was similar to the one I felt. Maybe he, too, is remembering times my wife and I were too hard on him, and he also felt blamed for something one of his other two siblings did.
Parenting is tricky. It doesn’t come with a roadmap or a how-to guide. I know I’m not the perfect parent by any means. I just hope our children realize how much we love them, and can feel comfortable coming and talking to us about their feelings.
Something I never felt I could do when I was a teenager.
Thanks for reading!
Tagging some of Scot’s fans and friends who’ll enjoy a toot, er, a hoot: Lu Skerdoo, Scot Butwell, Scott Younkin, Robert Ralph, Jameson Steward, Gerald Sturgill, Kristine Laco, Kristina God, Kristine Laco, Adelina Vasile, MarkfromBoston, Michael Dolan, Delaware Sports Blitz, J.R. Spiers, Pam Winters, KiKi Walter, Ravyne Hawke, Trista Signe Ainsworth, Liz Porter, Lisa's Desk Chat, Jimmy Misner Jr., David Perlmutter, Sr Towen, Mark Krauss, Suma Narayan, JoAnn Ryan, Maria Khan, Janet Meisel, Brett Millan, B.R. Shenoy, Dennett, Alyse Rowe, Rachel Hope, Sara Burdick, Angie Smartt, Jan Sebestyen, Mandy McElroy, Filiz Özer, Sam Ochstein, Kaz Rochford, Ines May, Jeanne Marron
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