by Austininva
My father is a man of few words, packed with wisdom, and armed with a sense of humor that most people wouldn’t understand—nor survive. My wife, to this day, still isn’t sure if he loves her… or is slowly plotting her disappearance. He maintains a deadpan expression no matter what, radiating seriousness like a statue in a courthouse.
But like “I before E except after C,” there are exceptions to the rule.
This story is one of those exceptions. Some of my dad’s best comedic moments happened around the dinner table. We were mid-meal, enjoying a solid home-cooked spread, when someone—I can’t remember who exactly, but let’s be honest, it was totally my mother—let loose what might be the most powerful fart ever unleashed in recorded human history.
I’m not exaggerating. Air raid sirens had nothing on this. We had discovered a natural foghorn.
My dad slowly put down his fork, turned to my oldest sister, and asked, “Do you know why there are handles on the sides of my mattress?”
My sister, trying her best, replied with the logical answer: “To help you move the bed around?”
My father, without missing a beat, began to edumacate.
He told us about his nighttime routine. First, a pep talk in the mirror: “You got this. You da man.” Then, he’d slip under the covers with precision, careful not to disturb the beast sleeping beside him.
And that’s when he dropped the knowledge bomb.
The mattress handles, he said, weren’t for moving the bed. No, they were for holding on for dear life when the gale-force farts began.
The image of my dad, clinging to the mattress as a hurricane of methane blasted him into oblivion, shattered us. Laughter. Weeping. Utter collapse.
He wasn’t done.
He explained how the alarm clock had to be taken outside to recover—electronics couldn’t survive a blast like that. The houseflies would be mid-flight and just drop, like paperweights falling from the sky.
The dogs would howl. Cats outside would screech and flee. Neighborhood raccoons were filing noise complaints.
He claimed to have converted the family car to run on the methane he harvested, proudly showing us a mason jar like it was a vintage wine. “The preferred method for collection,” he said.
When the gas attacks came, he’d remake the sheets, brace himself, and call out into the house like a WWI soldier: “GAS! GAS! GAS!” Though the kids would sleep through it, the house would regret dinner. Especially if the meal was chili. Or worse—your mother’s favorite: full-fat milk over cereal.
At sunrise, the battle over, he’d crack a window—to let the last of the agent fade into the air—and begin his day. Calm. Confident. Knowing he had survived. Protected his people. Held the line.
We, his children, would awaken clueless to the heroics of the night. Unaware that beneath that calm, silent exterior… lived a warrior.
So now you know: those handles on your queen or king-size mattress? They’re not for moving the bed. They are to give Dads a sporting chance.
They’re for survival.
Oh, and I totally told my pastor this story two days later at church…
#NoShame
