We all know how horrible and long wars can be. They worst ones go on and on, often in volleying series of an endless match. We relish fighting someone else and will do it interminably. Always a Crusade somewhere between the believers and the infidels. The Capitalists vs. the Communists, the Protestants vs. the Catholics, the French vs. the English. The Hundred Year war has nothing on the Fart war of the Green sisters, however. This is a brutal contest with no end in sight.
Both my girls can fart on command and they bear them as effective weapons. I had no idea girls were as bad as we boys once were. Revolting terrorists, the both of them. I’m not sure what their agenda is, or if there is one at all. Likely they are in in for the pure misery and anarchy it evokes. Now that this year’s summer doldrums are upon us, the games have truly begun and there are no prisoners. And Hatfield and McCoy wake up early and armed.
“Ooh! You little turd!” Sophie yells from deep in her room. She laughs while making a guttural sound of disgust.
“Enjoy!” Lilah says as she streaks out of her room. Both their bedroom doors slam.
“Don’t you ever do that again! Mom, Dad, Lilah ran in my room, made a super stinky, and ran back out!” Sophie yells before 7:00 a.m. Both of them up and raring to go, first thing in the morning again. It’s summer, why sleep in like they did for the entire school year?
Lilah bursts in and beams an evil smile, relishing in her victory. Sophie swivels her butt at her and lets a whoopee-cushion quality fart fly. Disgusting, but impressive. Lilah runs off and Sophie sprints after her.
“No fart wars in Mommy and Daddy’s room!” I yell, one of the many, many phrases I never imagined coming out of my mouth.
The girls no longer really listen to me, I’ve found, and this is the cake topper. They are enmeshed in a long campaign, with its many stages and maneuvering, and my input is neither required nor appropriate. There will be blood.
“No fart wars in the car! Jesus, you two!” I yell as I roll down all the windows on our way out of the grocery store parking lot. Lilah laughs and Sophie retches, pretending to throw up.
“Lilah did it! I never fart in the car!”
“Liar! You did it yesterday!!”
“That was an accident,” Sophie says with a perfectly straight face.
Deft moves of potent adversaries. Using me like professional ball players use a referee to block their scripted plays. I was just a moving screen, a Trojan horse for their foul contest borne out of boredom and a lack of couth that I am only partially responsible for. The collateral damage is killing me, however.
“No fart wars at the dinner table!” I yell over Sunday’s steak, Lilah’s nastiness wafting over us as she strolls by Sophie.
“That was an accident,” Lilah leans in to her, her face a mooned smile.
The young one learns. Touche, ma petite fille. Touche.
“Stop it! Don’t force a fart, you’re gonna leave bacon strips!” I yell at Sophie, as she strains unnaturally over Lilah, innocently petting the puppy and watching cartoons. Another chapter in the vile practice.
When will it end? Never, it seems. All wars seem eternal. The battles become routine, the casualties commonplace.
Sophie skips by Lilah, the sort of skip they teach in gymnastics that I always found so hilarious. Identical to a little kid’s skip on the playground, except with a practiced, high hop on the alternating leg, pointed toes and arms extended. Perfect form, still. And at the top of each hop, a squeaky fart is shot out. Skip, hop, fart. Skip, hop, fart. Sophie twirls around Lilah, encircling her with skipping farts of death.
“Stop it! Dad!! Make her stop!” Lilah pleads, and runs off, through the kitchen and up the stairs, with Sophie following, never breaking her stride or her wretched routine. Not very fast either, but in a frightening, smooth zombie’s pace as she follows her to her room to torment her completely. A terrifying display, with no defense but that of retreat.
In the end, there is always a victor. The writing is so often in the history books far before the fighting actually stops. On the beleaguered face of the soon-to-be-vanquished, like Lilah wears now. In another clan, in another clash, she would be king, draping herself in the raiment of her own slain foes. But in this small realm, Sophie is the triumphant tyrant. There will be further skirmishes, for certain. But Genghis Green had conquered this realm, and now ruled with noxious impunity. At least now there will be mostly peace, and mostly fresh air.
I definitely should have signed up for more camps.
I love it! Great column! It reminds me a bit of you and Ted.
Hahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!
Paybacks….
So well written and captured.