My oldest son has manners, damnit. The kid is just polite. Bless you, thank you, may I? And when he farts, well, he’s quick with a “scoo-me” which is the “excuse me” apology for those with little time for extra syllables. Problem is, he’s too polite about it. For some reason he thinks that every part of the fart — every discrete fart quanta, if you will — must be separately excused. Imagine if you will (and please pardon the excursion into the vulgar if you don’t have kids) a child gatlin-gunning flatulence which bystanders cannot hear while saying “scoo-me scoo-me …. scoo-me” for each occurence. (At least he no longer calls the act “passing gassing”. That was just unbearably cute.)
Worse, he thinks he must do it no matter when it happens. He’ll be mid-sentence: “I was swinging at — scoo-me — the park — scoo-me scoo-me — and this kid walked in front — scoo-me — of me …” It is out of control. How out of control? Well, when he’s pooping behind a closed bathroom door you will hear the poor Emily Post mutant crooning scoo-me as he actually defecates. That’s just wrong. The crapper is sacrosanct. Do what you will in there with no repercussions, son. It is your temporary kingdom.
We have told him this. But he’s just so damn polite. Scoo-me.