No Farts Yoga
I’d been a little unhappy with my usual yoga studio, so I decided to try somewhere new. The old place just had a few too many, ooooh, how do I put this… a few too many butts in my face? It’s like, I’m trying to stretch but I’m in the most absurd non-sexual proximity to bodies not my own since the cuddle puddle I went to at AWP!
Anyway, butts in my face just don’t interest me. And I put up with it for a while, but then I noticed something worse. Right in the middle of Warrior 2, I started to think the butts were farting at me. I was trying to follow my breathing instead of my thoughts, but, alas, breathing was getting difficult. Finally, I gave in, looked up, and yup, at least half a dozen butts were farting right at me.
“Hey,” I said. “Cut that out.”
“We can’t,” the butts said. “Farting is one of the main things we’re for. And besides, you should be grateful. Without us you would’ve spent your childhood with nothing to laugh about.”
I thought to myself that the butts had a pretty Zen attitude. But I’m thirty-two! I outgrew fart jokes at least two years ago. I don’t need those butts anymore. No Namaste!
Luckily, my friend Shirley had experienced the same thing, and directed me to No Farts Yoga.
“I just got sick of fart saturation. I felt like for every minute of life I gained through unkinking my muscles, I lost two for poisoning my insides with rancid air,” Shirley said. “So I took my woes to Google, and No Farts Yoga was the first place I found.”
I loved the place right away. Normally, when you’re new to a yoga studio, they have you sign some paperwork, and they give you a tour. At No Farts Yoga, they go way further. First, they have you sign a No Farts Guarantee. I wasn’t sure I could guarantee that I would never, ever fart on the premises, though. And this made me sad. I’d come here to escape, but here I was being my own worst enemy! I expressed my concerns to their in-house specialist, Jeff, and he told me not to worry, he’d teach me a few of their methods.
“The most obvious method is The Eagle Clench,” Jeff said. “You just pretend you’re an eagle, clench, and force your fart into your liver where it’s converted to purified air.”
I said I hadn’t been doing yoga too long, and I didn’t know if I could pull that off.
“If that one sounds tough,” he continued, “you can always try The Toot Toot Trumpet. That’s when you sing ‘toot toot’ out your mouth as if you’ve swallowed a trumpet. What this does is counteract the symphonic aspect normally reserved for a fart. It’s like, when your butt hears your mouth doing the tooting, the butt gets perplexed and takes a nap.”
The Toot Toot Trumpet was the method for me, and boy, never have I ever had such a great time doing yoga. Whenever I’m tempted, I go “toot toot” and everyone turns to me and says, “Namaste.” I’m stretched, I’m relaxed, and I’m happy. And, my butt’s happy too. On my ride home from No Farts yesterday, I felt my butt twitch in the car seat. I looked down to see what it had to say.
“You may’ve clipped my wings, but I’m glad we’re better friends!”
Thanks for the Zen attitude, butt. I’m glad we’re better friends too.
Tom Dibblee is Trop’s editor. His fiction has appeared in Glimmer Train and his nonfiction has appeared in Pacific Standard, the Los Angeles Review of Books, and the Point. He lives in Los Angeles.