Private Parts (31 page)

said, "Ben, pull over and take him into a men's room and let him pass gas." We were in the middle of Manhattan, and my father was not too thrilled with all this. He was annoyed, he was yelling and screaming. My father saw a seedy hotel and pulled over. He grabbed me by the neck saying, "Come on, I don't see why we have to stop, we're going to be home in twenty-five minutes anyway." All this time, he was pulling me into the bathroom and pushing me in a stall. Now I'm sitting in this filthy stall in this seedy hotel with my old man pacing outside the stall, waiting to hear me pass gas. He's pacing, and my mother and sister are outside, alone in the car. How the hell am I supposed to be able to perform? You can't just let out gas on command, it takes a long time to let out gas. My belly is distended like a Biafran baby's at this point. I can't even move.
Oh, my God.
After pacing for five minutes, he said, "What's going on in there?"

"Dad," I said, "I can't fart."

The old man was steamed and he was screaming,
"Get out of there!"

He pulled me out. Back in the car, I was moaning the whole way home. And then, at home, when I was comfortable, like a dog, I went into the bathroom and passed my wind.

I always had that problem with gas. Alison learned that early in our relationship. We were on a date. We had been going out a couple of months. Every time I'd be out with her, and we'd go to dinner, I'd have the same stupid problem. So we would get back to my apartment, and every couple of minutes I'd be talking to her and I would disappear for a few minutes, come back in, disappear another few minutes, come back in, disappear another few minutes, come back in. So finally she said, "When you disappear, where do you go?" Maybe she thought I was a drug addict or something.

"To tell you the truth, I'm a little uncomfortable, I'm a little gassy."

She said, "Why do you keep doing that? Why are you uncomfortable around me? You can pass gas in front of me. Feel free." Well, with that, the flood gates opened. I was farting day and night in front of the woman and she was nauseous. I smelled like death. Like a rat crawled up my ass and got buried way too deep in my sphincter and died. I was sure she was expecting to be gassed maybe once or twice a month. Never did she realize that she would be exposed to constant heavy doses. About a week after that, she

was disgusted. "Listen," she said, "I want to go back to our original arrangement." But it was too late. I think that's why I married her. I couldn't go through that with another girl.

FARTMAN TO THE RESCUE

How many people do you know who can turn their faults and disadvantages into something that works for a positive higher cause, a greater good? That, my friend, is what separates a common man from a superhero. I could have glided through life, making a nice living as a radio personality, secretly excusing myself from meetings and writing sessions to repair to the bathroom to rip off a rat. That would be the easy thing to do. But when your country cries out for you, when the greatest land in the world is threatened by the organized, synchronized, and simonized forces of evil, yes, when the going gets tough, the tough get blowing. There was no way for me to escape my destiny.

I had to be Fartman. I created this character out of frustration. Whenever there was a problem in the world I would call foreign embassies and yell at dignitaries in a very deep voice. When they ignored my demands I would fart into the phone. Real dignitaries, real people, getting farted on over the radio all over the world.

Fartman first hit the air when I was in Washington. I remember it well. A few miserable Poles had just declared martial law and poor Lech Walesa looked like he was going to have to organize a union of solitary confinement prisoners. This was a job for Fartman. I got on the air, called the Polish embassy, and actually got through to the Polish ambassador, farted into the phone, and the rest is history.

Years later, Fartman was called back to active duty. We were at K-Rock, it was July 6, 1988, and the United States had just made a dreadful but honest error. We had shot down an Iranian airbus, killing 290 people. The Iranians were outraged and milking the incident.

These were the very same people who had funded and orchestrated the terrorist groups that had taken innocent American civilians as hostages. As far as I was concerned, this was war. I decided to take some positive action. We would call the Iranian consulate on the air that day.

"I can say the things the president can't say, Robin," I said as I dialed the number.

"Is this the Iranian embassy? This is Fartman. We're on the radio."

"Yes."

"Are you Iranian?"

"Yes."

"Listen, douche bag," I told him. "I'm gonna try to talk sense to you and if you don't listen I'm going to fart into this phone." There was silence; I had his attention.

"Look, let me explain America's position. Sometimes in the heat of battle you look up in the sky and see a plane and feel you are being attacked. It was an honest mistake."

My logic must have stunned the madman because he remained silent. And silence pisses Fartman off.

"Now get ready."
PHHHHHT!
I unleashed a masterful gas missile. "That is all I have to say about this issue."

"If that makes you feel better..." was his reply.

He was nonchalant but the reaction was instantaneous. Our switchboards were flooded by calls from listeners who called to pay homage to their new superhero. It is not a coincidence at all that the Ayatollah soon shuffled off this mortal coil.

THE RETURN OF FARTMAN

Unfortunately, we had to call on Fartman many times over the next few years. When a hostage was killed, Fartman called the Tehran Hyatt and chastised a reservations clerk. When the dreadful massacre took place in Tiananmen Square, he called the Chinese consulate and then called the world-famous F.A.O. Schwarz toy store and demanded that all their Chinese checkers be removed from the shelves. When Iraq invaded Kuwait, it incurred the full wrath of Fartman. Saddam has not recovered to this day.

Wherever injustice reared its ugly head, Fartman was there. When General Noriega ruled Panama with his pockmarked despotic face and hand, Fartman reached out to the Panamanian Marriott to offer his services:

"My tushy rules and drools, my digestive system pumps foul air for truth and justice. I squat and fart and whoosh my way into the

hearts of my people, as my hemorrhoids sway in the breeze, my stenching toots burn nostrils and bowl over bad guys because
I
am Fa
rtman! I can blow Burt Reynolds's toupee from here to Panama. I am calling the Panamanian people to offer my services....Hello?"

"Panama Marriott."

"My name is Fartman. I'm calling from the United States. May I speak to the reservations desk?"

"Reservations. Can I help you?"

"This is a radio station, this is Fartman. Are you familiar with Fartman?"

"Are we familiar with Fartman? No, sir."

"In the United States I am considered a superhero. Because of my unique colon, I am able to help the people of America. I would like to offer you help in your trials with General Noriega. If you need me in time of war I am
el
farto stinko hombre. Do you hear what I'm doing? Listen."
PHHHTT!
"Are you in fear of General Noriega or can you speak?"

"No, I cannot."

My first appearance as Fartman, with Adam West on my TV show. I threw the costume together in five minutes, complete with a toilet-seat necklace.

Friends of Fartman: Fred Norris, the King of Mars Man, and Belly Button Man (Jackie Martling, right.)

Poor woman. She was afraid to speak. "I will help you. I will come over with my farting power. I will blow up General Noriega and his armies. My flying dingleberries will put his eyes out."

"Okay, so whenever we need you, we can call you?"

"That is correct," I replied. She was completely out of it. What kind of a lunatic would take Fartman seriously?

"We'll be waiting for you then," she politely responded.

"And I'm sorry about Ricky Ricardo and Zorro."

FARTMAN DEFENDS SALMAN RUSHDIE

Fartman's greatest test came at the hands of a Libyan peasant. It all started when we decided to support the great author Salman Rushdie, who was under a death decree from the Ayatollah for his book
The Satanic Verses.
I decided that Fartman should read from the book. When the Iranian embassy didn't answer, an alternate plan was hatched. I asked my producer Boy Gary to call any hotel in Iran in order to establish diplomatic ties. "I've got the Tripoli Hilton on the line," he proudly announced.

"Hello. Is this the Tripoli Hilton? This is Fartman calling from American radio."

Robin was the first to realize Boy Gary's error.

"Tripoli?" Robin said, confused. Boy Gary was in a state of confusion once again. We had called Libya in error.

"Oh, this is Libya?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Wait a second. This is Libya? I was supposed to be calling Iran but this will have to do." It wasn't the first mistake Gary had made and it wouldn't be the last. "Let's call Australia next, Boy Moron.

"Hello, this is Fartman, is anybody there? Hello? This is Fartman, you dothead. Somebody must be there."

Finally, "Hello?"

"Yes, this is Fartman. Can you speak English?"

"Yes."

"I am going to read from
The Satanic Verses."
I began my narrative. "
'You couldn't find your way to heaven or what? Insensitive words to speak to a woman.
'" Maybe Rushdie did deserve a death decree.

"Yes?"

The sequels to
Fartman, the Movie.

"Can you say anything but yes?" I wondered.

"Yes."

We laughed.

"What's funny?"

"I am not afraid to read
The Satanic Verses.
Are you afraid to read them?"

"I think you are crazy," said the infidel on the phone.

"I am not, I am Fartman. I can blast you with just one fart. I will toot until all is well. Because my farts are wet."

"I think you're crazy, you know."

"I don't like Qaddafi. He sniffs camel farts!" I unleashed a mighty blast.
PHHHHT!
"I'm not afraid of him. One sniff of my gas powers and he'll be knocked unconscious. You know all those holes in Qaddafi's face? They're from the time that I met him and blasted him with one of my farts." This was war! "If I see you, I will fart in your face. Where do you fart? In your house, in the market, in bed with your hairy wife?"
PHHTTT!
"I am not afraid of Qaddaf -- "

"Everybody is afraid of my leader!" he suddenly bellowed. Was it something I said? I'd found his weak spot.

"He's a coward! He's afraid
of us!
That's why he resorts to terrorism and cross-dressing."

"You donkey."

"I'm not a donkey, douche lips, I'm Fartman. America's the greatest country in the world, where everyone is allowed to practice freedom of religion. Unfortunately, even the Muslim religion."

"You are sick, I think," he said.

Robin suddenly interrupted. "I don't know why we're railing

against the Libyans when it's the Iranians ..."

"This is the only number Gary has. Gary, you're an idiot. Why am I talking to Libya?"

Gary stepped into the room. "He's Islamic. The whole nation of Islam is against the book."

"Let me tell you, your country stinks on ice. I wish you were here so I could fart in your face. Are you wearing sandals?"

"No."

"Aha. You are wearing sandals. My rectum knows all."

PHHHT!

He grunted, obviously weakened by the cumulative effect of my blasts, then cursed, and hung up. At least we found an Islamic. We would have spoken to a Puerto Rican if it was up to Gary.

FARTMAN GOES TO HOLLYWOOD

Hey, what's more American than doing something heroic and then wanting to cash in on it? Altruism goes only so far. I decided it was time to take Fartman to Hollywood ... to the MTV awards.

The first problem was finding a copresenter for me. MTV couldn't get anybody to appear with me. For about a month they made phone calls to everyone in Hollywood, endless phone calls, and no one would appear with me. I wanted Cindy Crawford but she wouldn't appear with me. Then I wanted to get that girl from "Beverly Hills 90210," Shannen Doherty, but she's a friggin' Young Republican. She wouldn't do it. No one would do it. Then Luke Perry heard me bitching about it on the air and he volunteered to copresent with me. He was really nice about it.

A designer put together my costume to feature my ass cheeks. And I made the belt tight so my belly would hang out. I wanted this to be the most disgusting thing people had ever seen. I wanted people to retch over my outfit. I ate my ass off the weekend before so

I put on twenty-five pounds so my belly and butt would look extra gross, hanging out of my costume. The backside needed full openings to gain maximum comedy impact. These are shots of the fitting session. Believe it or not, it took three fittings to develop this mess.

Designer Ted Shell's working sketch of Fartman for the MTV awards show.

the costume would be extra gross. I also decided that I was going to fly in as Fartman. I figured I'd fly in about five feet above the stage.

When I got there before the show, the same guys who flew Peter Pan were going to fly me. Oh, great, this'll be a piece of cake, I thought. When I showed up for the rehearsal, they said, "You gotta go up there. Thirty feet in the air." Suddenly I'm a Flying Wallenda. Wait a minute. They want me thirty feet up in the air suspended by two little wires when I ate like a pig all weekend?

They had to raise me up in stages. And I'm shaking. I'm trembling with fear, because you have no idea how scary it is. They got me up there and said, "Stick out your hands. Let go of the wires." I couldn't even move. When I got down, the one thing they kept saying to me was, "When you're on the stage, don't spin around, because you'll tangle the wires. And if you tangle the wires, it's
not good."