Every subculture eventually writes down its rules. Chess has FIDE. Barbecue has the Kansas City Barbeque Society. Fart noise competitions, despite their scrappy image and general bouquet, are no different. If you’ve ever sat in a crowded pub and watched two grown adults lean into microphones like jazz trumpeters holding back laughter, you’ve brushed up against a scene that takes timing, technique, and an oddly rigorous sense of fairness.
This is a field guide for running, entering, and judging fart noise competitions with a straight face and a clean scorecard. It leans on years of messy experience: basement throwdowns, county-fair sideshows, garage-band intermissions, and once, disastrously, a library fundraiser where a reference librarian confiscated a fart soundboard like a contraband harmonica.
What counts as a fart noise?
Purists insist on a simple rule: the sound must be made live by the competitor’s own body, mouth, hands, or common clothing. No pre-recorded clips, no hidden speakers, no editing. What matters is the air, the friction, and the performer’s control. In pub circuits, the reigning styles are mouth trumpets, palm squeaks, elbow pits, forearm reeds, damp wrist buzzes, and the occasional armpit classic. You’ll also see hybrid techniques, like using a plastic cup rim to shape resonance or cupping a hoodie sleeve for a bassier tone.
You do not need gastrointestinal participation. This is not a colonic Olympics, it’s performance. If you’re new to the scene and wondering how to make yourself fart for real, that’s a separate health conversation. Many first-timers ask why beans make you fart or why they’re suddenly farting so much after a 2 a.m. nacho plate. Those are legitimate questions, but the stage favors imitation rather than digestion. No one wants to judge a biohazard.
A quick word on props that show up but don’t belong: fart spray is out. It’s not sound, it’s sabotage. You would not spritz liquid smoke over your competitor’s brisket; keep the olfactory theatrics off the stage. Likewise, apps, a fart soundboard, or a canned fart sound effect turn a performance into a button press. Leave them for practice or comedy bits, not the competition floor.
The anatomy of a clean event
Start with the venue. You want a room that can hold laughter without swallowing detail. Wood floors and low ceilings flatter midrange tones, while high-ceiling halls eat the tail of a squeak. Place a single condenser microphone center-stage, chest height for most performers, and mark a line the competitors cannot cross. A table on the side holds sanitizer, paper towels, and a clean cloth for the mic. Position two clip-on mics as backups in case someone’s technique requires bending or odd angles.
Explain the rules at the top just like you’d read the safety card on a plane. It stops clever hacks later. Post the judging criteria behind the scorers and on a chalkboard near the bar. If questions arise mid-show, point to the board. Simple clarity keeps the night light and fair.
A small technical lesson helps: fart noises live around 100 to 800 Hz for the fundamental, with brighter harmonics above. You don’t need a spectrum analyzer, but teach your sound tech to cut a bit of low rumble from the house and to lift the 2 kHz region gently, which sharpens articulation without turning the room into a hissy mess. Keep gain conservative and compression light. Over-compress a squeak and the audience hears a tired balloon rather than a nimble reed.
Categories that keep chaos fun
It’s tempting to make everything freestyle, but categories are the backbone of judging. They let different skills shine and prevent one trick pony acts from steamrolling the night. The most successful events I’ve run used five buckets, with short sets to keep the room alive.
Short solo: A single sound, up to five seconds. Think of it as your calling card. Judges listen for clarity, tone, and control.
Combo: Two or more distinct sounds in a single breath or movement. This showcases transitions, something even experienced performers botch when nerves hit.
Rhythm and cadence: Thirty seconds to build a pattern. The best acts land in pocket like a beatboxer, using rests as punchlines.
Mimicry: Replicate a brief, everyday sound. A rubber sole squeak, a balloon stretching, an elevator groan, even the notorious duck fart shot call-out from the bar, which is actually a layered drink, not a waterfowl’s opinion. The point is believable imitation that still lives in the farty palette.
Themed duet: Two performers, one minute. It’s not about volume, it’s about play. Call and response, faux arguments, musical phrases. Keep body contact to a minimum and consent clear, because adrenaline can make people grab shoulders or bump elbows without asking.
You can run these back to back with light banter. I’ve seen rooms go dead when an MC rants between categories. Keep transitions tight, and if gear fails, give the next person the right to restart their turn with no penalty.
The judging grid that actually works
Many nights die on vague judging. “Vibe” is not a criterion. Use a simple ten-point grid with five categories, two points each, and write definitions on the scorecards.
Tone: Does the sound have a defined pitch or harmonic content that suits the intended effect? Even a raspy burst should feel intentional, not flaccid.
Articulation: Are the starts and stops crisp? Sloppy attacks feel mushy. Clean onsets read better in a room.
Control: Can the performer repeat the sound on demand, maintain volume, and vary duration without falling apart?
Creativity: Is this new or cleverly arranged? A classic armpit blast can score here if the performer adds a twist, like a half-valve pitch bend.
Showmanship: Does the performer use posture, eye contact, and pacing to sell the moment without drowning substance in shtick?
This grid doesn’t care how you produce the noise. A mouth-only virtuoso can outscore a gym-class armpit champ if their tone and articulation pop. Conversely, a basic palm squeak can win if the musicality and control are undeniable.
For fairness, seat three to five judges. Never use an even number, because tiebreaks cause headaches. Mix backgrounds: one musician or sound tech, one improv or comedy person, one layperson who represents the crowd. If you’re short on pros, pick the bartender and the quiet woman in the second row who’s been laughing with restraint. That type often hears detail the rest miss.
Tournaments, timing, and tiebreakers
Logistics sink more shows than bad acts. Cap your competitor list to what the room can handle, usually twelve to sixteen. Draw running order out of a hat so friends can’t stack the deck. Post times by the bar and keep a visible countdown clock the audience can see.
Each competitor gets a quick mic check and then a firm window in each category. Go over and you bleed a point automatically. This is not cruelty, it’s flow control. The audience forgives odd noises, but they hate dead air and marathon dithering.
Ties happen. Decide the tiebreak in advance: one sudden-death short solo, fresh sound, no repeats. Flip a coin for order. In dozens of shows I’ve only seen one double tie, and we solved it with audience applause measured on a phone decibel app. It works if you hold the phone the same distance for both. Imperfect, but better than hand-waving.
Ethics, hygiene, and the line between funny and foul
The stage should never become a petri dish. Shared microphones live in a danger zone where bravado meets droplets. Wipe the windscreen between performers with alcohol pads. If the room is humid, rotate two windscreens so each has time to dry. Encourage competitors to bring their own windscreen. They cost less than a duck fart shot in most bars and save arguments later.
Skip any prompt that drifts into humiliation. Jokes about specific bodies or kinks derail the room. You’ll hear phrases from the wider internet, including the more lurid corners that mix fart talk with explicit topics. Leave them there. This is a sound contest, not a search-history confessional. On a similar hygiene note, someone will eventually ask whether you can get pink eye from a fart. Outdoors with clothing in the way, risk is negligible. Up close and unwise, you’ve left the event rules behind.
What the audience actually loves
Crowds remember three things: timing, surprise, and a moment that feels like an accident but lands perfectly. Give them that and they forgive an occasional squeaker that dies mid-lift.
One night in Portland, a lanky kid in a corduroy jacket shuffled up with a nervous twitch. First note, nothing. Second, a timid squeal. Then he turned his left wrist just so, cupped with the right palm, and produced a tremolo that sounded like a bicycle spoke catching a loose card. He tapped his foot, found tempo, and the room clicked into clap-time. Judges scored him high on control and creativity even though his tone lacked bass. He lost the final by a whisker but sold out his zine at the door.
The flip side: a veteran who brought a hidden Bluetooth speaker under a scarf. The tone was glossy, the attacks too precise, and when a battery chirp leaked between takes, we caught it. Disqualification, tempers, and later apologies. The crowd does not mind rough edges. They mind cheats.
Coaching tips competitors never forget
Technique: Treat your body like an instrument, not a whoopee cushion. Small adjustments in posture change resonance. For mouth work, relax the jaw, shape vowels with your tongue, and use lip corners for pressure, not brute force from the center. Palm and elbow styles benefit from a thin film of moisture, but too much water blurs articulation. A single sip of water before your set often beats a sloppy sleeve.
Breath: Find the spot between overblow and whisper. Many first-timers push hard and fry their tone. Think gentle, continuous airflow, then use micro-closes of the valve, whether lips or skin contact, to create articulation. If you can hum a stable pitch for eight seconds, you can sustain a consistent squeak without collapsing your chest.
Pacing: Bank an easy win early. Your first sound should be your most reliable, not your bravest. Ride the audience’s first laugh, pause half a beat, then deliver your curveball. Silence is a tool. When you can hold a beat of quiet, the next chirp lands twice as loud.
Warmup: Ten minutes before call-time, step outside and practice quietly. Don’t blow your best material at the bar. Wind and cold dry your instrument, so keep a scarf or hoodie if the alley is breezy. This is not superstition, it’s physics.
Mindset: You will botch something. When you do, smile, shrug, and return to your anchor sound. Confidence recovers more points than perfection.
Health questions that always surface
Someone will pull you aside and ask why their farts smell so bad all of a sudden, or why they fart so much after switching to a high-protein diet. Offstage, the short version is that bacteria in the gut ferment carbohydrates and proteins, creating gases like hydrogen, methane, and sulfur compounds. Certain foods, beans in particular, pack oligosaccharides that reach the colon undigested, a buffet for microbes. If the change is abrupt and intense, check whether you added sugar alcohols or large amounts of dairy. If it comes with pain, talk to a clinician. Another frequent question is whether an over-the-counter product like Gas-X makes you fart more. Simethicone, the active ingredient, coalesces gas bubbles so you https://jaredsldo459.theburnward.com/fart-noise-masterclass-from-squeakers-to-thunderclaps can pass them more comfortably. That can feel like more gas in the moment, but the point is relief, not volume increase.
The point of these answers at an event is not to run a clinic. It’s to keep the line between stagecraft and biology clear. You’ll get better performances and fewer grimaces if the greenroom smells like hand sanitizer and pizza, not a chemistry set.
Scoring disputes, handled like grownups
Eventually a competitor will hover near the judges’ table and argue a half-point. Make a ritual of cooling down. No one approaches the table for five minutes after a category ends. If someone ignores this, a volunteer gently intercepts and schedules a quick debrief after the show. During that debrief, pull out the scorecard and explain at least one concrete reason for each number. If a judge can’t articulate a reason, the panel can, rarely, adjust a score by one point. Never change a score after the next category starts. Guardrails like these keep grudges from hardening.
Audiences sometimes chant for a favorite who underperformed. Let them cheer, then acknowledge it on mic with a nod to the judging grid. People accept outcomes when they understand the math, even if their heart wanted a squeakier ballad.
Kids, pets, and the eternal cat question
Family-friendly events draw big crowds. The rules don’t change, but the humor does. Remind performers to aim for silly, not crass. Keep the MC’s banter light. If you book a Saturday matinee, cut the duet category, which can drift into awkward physical bits at the wrong venue.
And yes, the cat question arrives every time: do cats fart? They do, as do most mammals, but they’re stealthy about it. Dogs broadcast; cats file paperwork in triplicate and deny everything. No pet should share the stage, partly for allergy reasons, partly because you’ll lose control of the room to a purring diva.
Money, prizes, and the strange economy of flatulence
Cash prizes change behavior. A twenty-dollar bar tab keeps it light. A four-figure purse invites drama and YouTube strategists. If you want ambition without acrimony, offer trophies and joke currency, like a custom “fart coin” minted in acrylic, or a sash embroidered with your event’s crest. If you sell merch, consider practical items: personal mic windscreens, travel-size sanitizer, and a cheeky enamel pin. Steer clear of novelty powders marketed as unicorn fart dust. You’re building a scene, not a glitter cleanup crew.
Sponsorship brings in money, but choose partners who understand the tone. A music shop that loans mics and cables is perfect. A prank shop that pushes fart spray is not. A bar can run specials named for the night - duck fart shot, soda floats, whatever fits - as long as it stays silly and not mean.
A sample rulebook you can steal
Print this on one page and tape it backstage. It covers the friction points that most often derail a night.
- Eligibility: Live, human-made sounds only. No pre-recorded clips, apps, or hidden speakers. Hands, mouth, arms, simple clothing allowed. No external instruments. Hygiene: Bring or use a clean windscreen. Wipe the mic between sets. No fart spray or scent gags, onstage or off. Categories and timing: Short solo (5 seconds), combo (10 seconds), rhythm and cadence (30 seconds), mimicry (15 seconds), themed duet (60 seconds). Time penalties: minus one point for exceeding any limit. Judging: Five criteria, two points each: tone, articulation, control, creativity, showmanship. Three to five judges, odd number only. Ties settled by sudden-death short solo, fresh sound. Conduct: No harassment, no explicit acts, consent for any physical interaction. Respect the volunteers, the venue, and the next performer’s time.
If your event needs a second checklist, print this for the judges and the sound tech.
- Before the show: calibrate mic height, test gain, set a light compression, and confirm timers are visible. Review criteria definitions out loud. During sets: write numbers immediately after each sound or section, not at the end. Note a specific reason under each score. After each category: announce top three with points, remind the room of the next category and time limits. Hold a five-minute no-approach buffer around the judges’ table.
Edge cases you’ll face once and never forget
The costume conundrum: A performer in thick gloves claims it’s part of a character. Gloves mute articulation. Allow the costume but make clear the score will reflect muffled tone. They’ll ditch the gloves next time.
The prop line: Someone brings a balloon and argues that rubbing it is the same as rubbing a shirt sleeve. The balloon is an external instrument, not clothing. Disallow it, kindly.
The medical card: A competitor cites a respiratory condition and asks for longer breath windows. Accommodate entry order and provide a stool, but keep time limits equal. Fairness matters more than pity. People with limits can still win on creativity and control.
The viral request: An audience member shouts for a “Harley Quinn fart comic” bit or some other meme. Let the performer pass. Inside jokes don’t translate on stage unless they planned it. An MC can smile, acknowledge the reference, and pivot.
The drink spill: Someone orders a duck fart shot for the judges mid-round. Pause between competitors, not during, to keep attention on stage. The room stays warm, the performer doesn’t lose momentum, the bar still sells the goofy thing.
Training nights and the path to a regional
If your local scene grows, run training nights. Thirty people in a back room, one mic, no judges, just feedback. Teach basics like posture, mic distance, and framing a set. Show how a subtle wrist twist can add a half-step rise, how a quick lip release creates a percussive K that feels like punctuation after a long tone. This is where a community learns the difference between loud and good.
A regional event benefits from a short codebook that travels. Standardize your categories and scoring so someone can host in another city and still crown a champion who stands up under a different set of ears. Publish winners, but also publish runner-up highlights with a sentence about what they did well. It signals that this is craft, not chaos.
Why this works at all
On paper, you’re asking adults to make ridiculous sounds into a microphone and let others grade them. In practice, you’re running a workshop in timing, breath, and the kind of physical comedy that lands without cruelty. The rules don’t strangle fun; they protect it. A clear frame keeps the night buoyant, the performers brave, and the audience laughing for the right reasons.
If you build it with care, the questions stay charming rather than gross. People will still ask whether Gas-X makes you fart or if cats really do, but they’ll do it over the merch table while buying a pin, not into the mic during a set. You’ll finish on time, shake a dozen hands, and watch someone new walk out into the night already planning a wrist angle they haven’t tried. That’s how a scene takes root - not in shock value, but in people chasing small, joyful improvements.
And if, sometime around 11 p.m., a competitor steps up, breathes, and lays down a tone that hums through the floorboards and ripples into a perfect, rhythmic triplet that makes the crowd clap of its own accord, you’ll understand why we bother to write rules for something this silly. It gives a shared language to a fleeting noise, and for a few minutes, everyone’s on the same beat.