SASS AND THE CITY

Love in a time of flatulence

An Asian romantic comedy subverts toilet humour with a poignant episode on the affairs of the heart

IT isn't so often that you see nearly a full episode of television devoted to a discussion on flatulence. But there it was in the recently concluded Be Melodramatic, a criminally underrated Korean drama on cable television that plumbed the depths of relationship dynamics by exploring something base to delightful effect.

The opening scene began with the female protagonist in the throes of love, having just committed to a relationship a day before. Prancing about her apartment, she unlocked her groceries in her kitchen and let one rip in unadulterated glee, only to find herself a split second later staring at her newly minted beau, who had snuck in to surprise her.

Her face ashen, the character - and her partner - attempted to rationalise the unfortunately emphatic leakage. (Isn't it an obvious lie to hide your fart?) Meanwhile, the air purifier helpfully turned itself on. (Maybe it's on a timer!)

The discussion comically extended to separate conversations about the dynamics of foul gas attacks in relationships.

The protagonist's roommates broke down - seriously - the Great Gaseous Escape, reflecting then, their perspective on the power play in relationships.

Wasn't it too soon, one asked. There are times when you argue fiercely and later, you can't remember what you've been arguing about. In most of those times, you failed to be careful about the things that could make the other uncomfortable, said the perceptive one.

Farts are only but the vibration of the sphincter muscles. Human beings fart on average eight times a day, so do it four times silently, and four times in the open, said that coldly clinical caricature of a character.

They also analysed - deeply - the auditory quality of the butt belch.

It didn't make a cute sound, did it.

It was more like a splat splat, than a little toot.

Oooh, how did you make that sound with your mouth? Do it again.

Extending the debate to an actress shooting a reality-TV show (and for the uninitiated, Korean dramas are big on the meta references), the narrative offered another perspective.

The actress, with her glamorous hair and sandpapered face, said with a blissful smile on her face that she cannot be held liable for farting. Because every time she does, her better half would take the heat, apologising to her for letting one rip.

It's an inception fart. With him, I'll never ever be passing gas.

In my completely unscientific poll of friends on the socially acceptable time-out period before farts escape in the open - it helps here to have media friends indulging your questions - responses ranged from six months to a year depending on the potency of the farts, to letting one go on the first date, to it being a sign of a deal clincher. At press time, one is still thinking about it.

But to quote one poetic thought: "If you can't fart in front of your partner, how will you treat them with love when one day they can no longer feed themselves, or when life introduces a tragedy you find impossible to bounce back from?"

Practicalities matter too. Said a new mum who dated her partner for years before marriage: "Only after marriage and giving birth! It's very difficult to control now, the muscles - there - are not very good anymore."

Turns out I didn't have to create my own poll because the Internet giveth. An AskMen article said a survey of 1,000 adults found that men would wait about 6.5 months before passing gas in front of their partners. Women, however, would wait about double the time, to 1.3 years.

This "butt tuba" conundrum, as a Mic article put in, exists in part as it reflects gender ideals, it said. Women, in particular, tend to place stigma on a natural bodily function. Men embrace them (though let's be honest, sometimes a little too much).

So the true kick in the backside came from the subplot's subplot in the Korean drama, when the original fart offender challenged her mother to fart openly at her dad for the first time.

Fart she did. And when the dad stayed stone-faced at the first noxious whiff, it became a matter of pride. (He wasn't responding to any of my farts. And I know it sounds weird, but it kind of upset me.) She farted in the living room, the kitchen, the laundromat that was their common working space, the bedroom. (Later on, it became a matter of pride so I even forced a fart.) There was no response.

Days later, the husband returned home drunk, even though he wasn't much of a drinker. In his stupor, he handed over to his wife a large white envelope. In it, was a brochure for a comprehensive medical checkup, for which he made an appointment on behalf of his wife.

Drunkenly honest, he said: "We promised to go to the countryside and live by ourselves once our daughters grow up and get married. But what would be the point if you're not there with me? It will all be meaningless." He clutched a cushion to sleep.

As it emerged, the wife of the husband's friend had recently died from cancer. The symptom? Uncontrollably smelly farts. Regrettably, the friend lamented about the flatulence in his wife's last days, not knowing that she was ill.

"I wasn't the one overthinking. It was your dad. I didn't know a few farts would make me talk about death with your father," the mother mused, as she pared the skin off a fruit.

Whoppers and their unexpected burst of honesty. Such is love, and then, life.

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