Daddy Farted

“Hey Daddy, can we, um, can you, can, um, um, can you, um, daddy, can we, um, hey Daddy, can we...”

This goes on for-seemingly-ever until he reaches the point.

“Um, Daddy, can you play the ‘Daddy Farted’ song?”

Sigh.

“Okay buddy,” I say, “but let Daddy get a cup of coffee first.”

It’s a weekday morning, and we don’t really have time for the “Daddy Farted” song, but the boy’s request is so sweet and sincere, and I guess it wont’ take that long, and I guess it won’t make us that late, and plus it’s about the only time I get to bust out the old axe and his buddy Marshall.

When I was seventeen, I was going to be the next Kirk Hammett. I was going to be the next Dimebag Darrell. Later on, I was going to be the next Dave Navarro. The next Tom Morello. I broke strings and annoyed neighbors in the name of rock. My dorm room floor was a mess of wires and pedals. There was much skronking.

I pull the amp out of the closet and set it down in the baby’s crib. It is not the most rocking amp placement, but it’s necessary in order to keep the baby from fucking with the knobs or pulling the wire out or fucking eating it. The three year old plugs the wire into the amp, then loops the other end through the guitar strap before plugging it into the guitar. My pint-sized guitar tech. I tune it to the key of good enough.

And then we rock.

“Daddy Farted” is a pretty simple jam. The guitar part consists of the most basic of rock riffs -- think first guitar lesson simple -- and the lyrics are just “daddy farted” repeated an assload of times. And when that’s done, you replace “Daddy” with whoever else farted. And since everybody farts, the possibilities are pretty infinite. By the time it’s over, not only has Daddy farted, but so has Mommy, Big Bro, Baby Bro, Grandma, Pawpaw, Nanny, The Dog....some of them even twice. Toss in two bouncing spinning little boys and you’ve got a winner. It’s not quite what I had in mind when I used to dream of stirring up a moshpit, but it’ll do.