Monday, October 04, 2004

Who Let The Dogs Out?

I have a bit of a lactose intolerance problem, which I believe to be standard-issue gastrointestinal inferiority among the Jewish people. I can’t think of one Member of the Tribe in my circle of friends and family who doesn’t take a certain measure of pride in clearing out a room with a pooter after a bowl of ice cream or a cheese sandwich. What can I say? It’s a gift.

When I was a child, I can remember seeing my father – a tall, robust man with a booming voice and a stoic persona – moved to tears on occasion by his own gas. We’d be sitting around watching Happy Days and my dad would unleash one of his familiar five-second window-rattlers and send my mom, my sister and me sprinting for the front door. We pulled our noses into our shirt collars as we ran and my mother, who is by no means immune from the Jewish gas gene herself, would half-teasingly scold my father.

“Howard!” she’d say indignantly, her nose pinched between her thumb and index finger. “Could you give us a little warning next time please? Jesus criminey…”

I’m amused report that a caustic intestinal tract has joined webbed toes and dashing good looks among the gifts my father has passed down. That became malodorously evident Saturday night while I stood among the heaving masses of Kerry youth in Hollywood. Chris Heinz, the remarkably Jew-haired son of Tuh-ray-zuh, was addressing the assembly and talking rather arrogantly about how he expects to see Bush waving good-bye from Marine One in January. As he spoke, I felt the familiar dairy-induced rumble in my gut. FIRE IN THE HOLE!

My first thought was panic. The second was unbearable anticipation. I had consumed three big spoonfuls of Ben & Jerry’s earlier in the day and I knew immediately that the byproduct was going to be extremely unpleasant for those around me. If I could just get this puppy out quietly, I might single-handedly turn California into a swing state.

My brow furrowed in concentration as I methodically worked the bubble south, strenuously trying to ensure that my efforts would not beget a night-spoiling deposit or a seismic rumble that would leave no doubt as to who let the dogs out. Finally, success: “Pahhhhhhhh…” A silent assassin.

There was a lag time of about three seconds. Suddenly, people began to wrinkle their noses and wipe the tears from their eyes. The guy in front of me silently mouthed “Was that you?” to his escort. Someone behind me passed out. And Heinz, who was on stage and therefore had an extra two or three seconds of oxygen (hot air rises), broke off mid-sentence, dropped the mic with a thud and sprinted off stage left.

At that moment, as I stood and observed the destruction around me, I loved my father more than ever.


At 8:30 PM, Blogger SRL said...

I envy you.

At 7:31 AM, Blogger Fadedpaperdoll said...

your mom says, "Jesus criminey?"

where were you? a rally?

D-boy you are so funny. I loved this post.

Tell me, what's the story on Teresa? Is she foreign?


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