Rod Mackenzie

I was browsing through through a couple of books in a public library. There were a number of people in the reading area. I shifted in my chair and one of the joinings must have been a bit loose because the chair creaked loudly, a parping noise, uncomfortably like a certain impolite emission. A few heads and eyebrows raised and one old chap looked at me over his newspaper with a knowing grin. There were one or two discreet coughs and the room gathered its silence again. I tried to get the chair to make that dang creaking noise again and thus send a message to all listeners that it was the bloody chair, not me, but Murphy’s law kicked in: all of a sudden the joining had been gloriously healed, hallelujah. Not.

Which brings me to the delicate subject of sexism, flatulence and Zapiro’s recent global emissions cartoon. Sure, ol’ Zaps gets it spot on again. The G20 summit was just so much wind, political agendas packaged as genuine concern for the global mess. Our world is pictured as struggling with all the flatulence of all the political players in a picture we are invited to compare to the baked beans episode in that dumbass movie, Blazing Saddles.

My tongue-in-cheek problem with the Zapiro cartoon is that it only shows men breaking wind and they are doing a passionate, hearty job of it, complete with loud noises and gusts of wind. They are also eating, and lustily farting at the table among guests is perhaps the ultimate faux pas. Now I know in nuclear families, when it is just Mom, Pops and the kids, sometimes “dropping one” at the dinner table is okay. Pops reinforces the myth that only men make gas when he raises a cheek and, well, pops one at the table and the little kids laugh. Ha ha, Mommy, Daddy did a stinker. Mom either joins in the mirth or glares at the cheeky bugger for modelling bad manners for her children. Note now they are her children, not his.

Yep, like I said, it seems to be a public myth in our society that men only break wind. Women are incapable of contributing an ounce or two of methane to the atmosphere. Of course I said “public myth” as it sure as hell ain’t a private myth, that is to say, between spouses. I have been together with my partner for more than five years and the illusion of girls made of sugar and spice and everything nice was shattered a long time ago. And the boisterous discharge is sometimes followed by a wicked cackle. Duvets have more than one insulating function, I kid you not.

Nope, the public myth about flatulence is like the one about sweating. Horses sweat, bru. Men perspire or also just sweat. The ladies can only shine.

This all reminds me of an old favourite joke on the myths about men and women and their differences which I shall package the MacKenzie way.

The difference between men and women is that men fart and women cannot keep a secret. A man’s flatulence has been known to make small children cry and dogs howl at the moon. A woman’s bottom is incapable of such a feat. She primly holds it in.

But one thing a man can hold in a secret. Tell them anything that is off the record and chests are thumped “scouts’ honour” style and lips are sealed forever my bru. Not a woman. I know for a fact that if I want a secret to become public I would just tell one of the ladies in the Johannesburg office and get her to swear to keep the juicy tidbit private. By the next day the office in Cape Town knows every luscious detail and a few extra I never said.

So what have we got here? Men make gas, women hold it in, but, unlike the blokes, the gals sure are gossips. So how do you get a woman to keep a secret?

Whisper it up her bottom.

(Runs out the door before a dozen hurled handbags, lipsticks and high-heeled shoes reach their target.)