As with all things, my gift both serves and limits. It has definitely limited potential friends and suitors as new acquaintances gasp and/or chuckle and/or run away. The uncontrollable effluvians from my backsidery have the odour of lavender and rye grass and, at times, the faintest hint of borage. No one could be offended by that.
However, the stentorian nature is enough to startle the sleepiest sloth and be a danger to young children and small animals. With no training or encourage from me, the outbursts have become more sonically creative and their repeated vocalisations have scared me witless many times. I have now been diagnosed with PTSD.
The upside of all these unexpected outbursts is that I have achieved no small measure of fame.
In April 2022 I was talking with Mr Albanese after rally in George Square, Brisbane, when I felt the approach of one of my sphincter-splitting solos. I squeezed my buttocks to no avail and there burst the bawdiest baritone I’ve ever heard, akin to a cockatoo playing a trumpet, very badly. The sound echoed round the city square and shocked the gunman who missed his target, blew three holes in a Labour Party sign and gave headaches to a dozen galahs perched nearby. I, therefore, claim credit for the man still being alive today.
Interviewed about the incident the next day at the Channel Seven studio, I resisted the urge to let go, the urge persisted and blew out two microphones and rendered the interviewer and a technician unfit for active duty. Samantha Heathwood happened to be in, watching the interview, and was immediately corralled in to take over the interview. I, therefore, claim credit for launching her illustrious career.
Soon nicknamed Plosive Pants, my fame spread like a lie and I was invited to the USA where oddities are famous for being famous. I was interviewed by Jimmy Fallon, Ellen DeGeneres and Craig Ferguson and then taken on a tour of Cape Kennedy. Watching the latest space launch, the count-down got to 6, 5, 4 and then my sonic boom obliterated the last three numbers and the craft couldn’t take off. It was later found that the main door was faulty, let air out and the crew would have perished. I, therefore, claim credit for saving the lives of all seven astronauts.
My sonically-fecund emissions have stunned people and stopped bar fights, boring rambles from the pulpit at funerals, dogs from biting children and children from incessant whining.
My greatest achievement, though accidental, has to be when a charging bull at the Birdsville Rodeo stopped in its tracks, looked around, stunned and probably deaf, and then slunk away with its tail between its legs. The pope breathed a huge sigh of relief and, once the devil’s advocate has finished investigating, I am likely to be proclaimed as Saint Philip of Cannon Hill.
This is a short story from My Whispering Teachers.
Carindale Writers Group 