“I Farted”: A Critical Inquiry

An analysis of the world’s best joke.

My son was eight when he discovered jokes. He understood comedy at a much younger age — mostly slapstick— but it wasn’t until second grade that he developed the verbal and mental dexterity to fully grasp the concept of a joke. Up to then, puns had been lost on him, play-on-words were taken literally, the world of language was gray, utilitarian, and straightforward.

And then one day, out of nowhere, he got it.

“I farted,” he said, and then collapsed into spasms.

I farted was my son’s first and most beloved joke. There were many corollaries: I farted in the car. I farted on your pillow. You hugged me and I farted. He was thrilled with himself. He showcased his new trick for audiences large and small, appreciative and bemused.

And in fairness, it’s an excellent joke.

A joke is a deceptively complicated form of rhetoric. For a piece of speech to qualify as a joke, it must be deliberate, performed, and designed to provoke a laugh response from its audience.

• Deliberate: A joke can be improvised, but not accidental. Let’s say I fart in the car. Did I tell a joke? It depends. Was it an accident? Yes? Then no, my fart was just a delightful biological release. But if I intentionally fart in the car, then that action becomes a “text” in the Richard Schechner school of performance studies and can qualify as a joke, presuming it meets the other criteria.
• Performed: When I farted in the car, did I do so for the benefit of an audience? No? Then sadly, my fart, while deliberate, is not a joke. We don’t tell jokes to ourselves; they are always for an audience. Jokes serve a social function. They’re relational. The only time we tell jokes when we’re alone is when we’re rehearsing. But just like a party doesn’t start until the partygoers arrive — disco music and a cheese tray in an empty room is not a party — a joke doesn’t truly become a joke until it is received by a listener, even a listener of one.
• Designed to provoke a laugh response: This might seem obvious, but let’s be thorough. If I fart in the car deliberately, for the benefit of my friends, but I am doing so in an attempt to call for help, to prove my gastrointestinal distress, or for some other serious reason, my fart is not a joke in the rhetorical sense. My friends may fall over themselves with laughter, but my fart was not designed for such a purpose. And the opposite is true: I can tell a joke to silence, and it still qualifies. Whether my fart succeeds in provoking the laugh response is a separate issue. Bad jokes are still jokes.

Applying this criteria, I farted is a perfect joke. It’s deliberate (“I farted!” he would cackle, whether or not he actually passed gas), it’s performed (“I farted!” he would declare gleefully during moments of silence at the dinner table), and it’s designed to provoke a laugh response in its audience (his success rate varied — a flatulence fluctuation based on the age, sophistication, and patience of the listener).

I farted is excitingly complex for two words. For example, it’s a very different joke from You farted. You farted is rooted in humiliation. You farted says, “I discovered your dirty secret and now will publicly shame you for your sin.” You farted is accusatory, mean, the joke of a bully. Its pleasure is reserved for our admiration of the joke-teller’s audacity and daring.

If my son’s first joke was You farted, I might be worried.

But I farted — oh! What a perfect first joke! I farted takes delight in its transgression. I farted exploits the tension between that which we shouldn’t do (fart) and that which we must do (fart), and how those two conflicting commandments fall heavily on the same impulse. I farted also takes advantage of our knee-jerk puritanism over certain bodily functions. I sneezed is not funny all, which is telling. A sneeze is equally necessary, surprising, explosive, and dramatic as a fart; perhaps because a sneeze takes place north of the equator, it’s less taboo.

I farted reclaims the farter from pariah status; by reveling in the transgressive act, the farter transforms into the hero: I, Farticus.

I farted is the joke of a Naughty Child.

A Naughty Child is a noble comedian archetype with a long history. Dennis the Menace is a Naughty Child. So is Daniel Tosh. So is Amy Schumer. Sarah Silverman’s early work exhibits Naughty Child tendencies. The Naughty Child takes delight in saying the thing we must not say. The Naughty Child grins at the camera, chomps on the carrot/cigar, and brags, “Ain’t I a stinker?”

The Naughty Child knows exactly how naughty she is being. Unlike the Hapless Idiot, who bumbles and fumbles and can’t get no respect, the Naughty Child knows exactly where the line is and takes special glee in the gasps of horror when she steps firmly over it.

A Naughty Child fights authority — all authority, everywhere, however that is perceived, regardless if the authority deserves it. All authority deserves it, for dint of being in authority. In that way, the Naughty Child is not a particularly sophisticated persona. It requires the comedian to stick her tongue out, to incite chaos, to blow raspberries at those who would suppress or condemn her. It is the Id, the wild demon inside us, the scamp.

The Naughty Child runs into trouble is when her audience doesn’t think her attacks are fair. The Home Alone movies, an excellent example of the Naughty Child in narrative form, work because they first establish the bad guys deserve to be punished. If the bandits were just minding their business, we’d see little Kevin, not as a hero, but as a psychopath. Elmer Fudd has to try to kill the rabbit for Bugs to run circles around him. If a comedian makes a joke about, say, women, the audience has to believe they kinda sorta deserve it. Otherwise the Naughty Child is just an asshole.

I farted loses its comic sting as soon as its audience make peace with farts as an inevitable and uninteresting. If you can shrug off a fart, you will not be entertained by I farted. But for eight-year-olds who are just beginning to navigate our elaborate social and cultural codes along with their growing awareness of their own unpredictable bodies, it’s gold. Gold, Jerry.

It’s fartacular.