For a long period of my childhood I thought that “fluff” was universal word bound to a concept everyone understood, which is essentially when the stinky gut-wind breaks beyond the bounds of the anus. To say, “you fluffed,” was common parlance, thought young, naive I.
I remember we were all sitting down on the carpeted floor in second or third grade for some assembly to watch some movie. These two boys were sitting next to me, chatting, laughing, and I innocently interrupted them to ask one of them what the green spot was on his tooth. “It’s a fart,” he said, and him and the other kid looked at each other and laughed like idiots.
For the longest time, I thought a fart was a small, parsley looking leaf piece stuck to enamel.
Why my mother considered fart a cuss word is beyond me.
I mean, if a new signature method of homicide executed by the mafia developed which involved suffocating a person by sandwiching their head between two large pillows and applying pressure with their hands until the point it evolves to pancaking or the victim goes rag-doll and it became traditional to refer to the victim as having been “fluffed,” I could perhaps understand. If a man, after making sweet love to an unassuming sheep shamefully confessed, “I just fluffed,” that would make sense to me. Or if you say, “that guy got fluffed up,” or “he was fluffed” in reference to the loser in a fist fight with a sentient marshmallow gnome, sure, I would see why the word was chosen to replace another.
Fluff is actually more than a step away from approximation with the average potential sounds produced by the process my mother intended it to designate: my ass has made sounds akin to “fart,” but never once have I ripped a fluff.
And what would you call the act of sharting, “flurting”? That isn’t flirting, that’s unintentionally blowing a load.
Call a fart a butt biscuit or an ejected gas-child or an aborted ass phantom or even a toot, but fluff?
I don’t get it.