There's a little sing-song rhyme that Boy chants every time Indy eats black beans. It disgusts me:
Beans, beans, the musical fruit--
The more you eat, the more you toot--
The more you toot, the better you feel--
So let's eat beans at every meal!
He chuckles to himself afterward because he seems to be pleased with his rhyming prowess. Personally, I have zero tolerance to potty humor. I never had to put up with those types of jokes before the year 2007. Suffice it to say, by marriage alone, I've been awakened (more like apalled) to learn that this is normal when living with an XY chromosome person.
The writing was on the wall though; Boy grew up with four older brothers. To my knowledge, there are a couple of his brothers who were the masterminds behind it all. Odorous sock bombs...need I say more?
And it's just one of those facts of life that to prepubescent boys, potty humor is so darn hysterical. This is understandable to me because I still have memories of how vile 7th grade boys were in gym class--girls this age are so sensitive anyway. The thing that mystifies me is that the fascination of potty jokes doesn't stop in junior high. Oh, no. It carries on into male adulthood.
Yet, what mystifies me more is that certain words cannot be used when referring to bodily sounds. In Boy's opinion, the sound must be called "toot" and never the F word (rhymes with dart). Ever a polite gentleman he is--for somebody so proper about vocabulary choices, it's still allowable to laugh and joke about beans.
So the bean song still lives on.
And I will still roll my eyes as I whisk away a bean-covered baby and plop her into the tub.