Let’s get silly shall we? I mean, let us hold hands (figuratively) and dive into this little post-holiday diatribe even though it will most definitely be sprinkled with some sophomoric, rank, juvenile, bathroom humor. Ready? Too bad. I’m off and running anyway. Apologies for that pun.

Why are people affected differently by eating the same types and varietal combinations of food? If our family basically eats the same breakfast, lunch and dinner items on the same day, including a proper mix of vegetables, starches and proteins, shouldn’t our bodies all tolerate that nourishing mix of masticated food in the same way? You might say “it should”, but I say unto you; “Pish Posh”.

The day after the third of July is an American holiday, celebrating the declaration of our independence from the governance of King George, though it took another five years before we pulled out a big can of whoop ass at Yorktown to send the Redcoats packing. On this unique holiday that most often falls on a week day, Americans feel compelled to make it an all day grill fest featuring a charred variety of meats. I guess you could choose to grill vegetables instead but isn’t this particular holiday one of the best opportunities to make it a “cheat day?” I mean, cheeseburger or eggplant, hot dog or zucchini, bratwurst or tofu, what would you choose?

I picture somebody reading this and demanding to chime in, addressing his or her computer screen in response with a barely audible, “Properly seasoned tofu on the grill really isn’t all that bad.” If you have to phrase your sentence in just that way, you’ve already lost this argument.

So while all at our house consumed the same basic foods for breakfast and lunch, I was the only one who started to feel a bit under the weather, a little bloated, a little more rounded above the belt line. It started to creep up on me after lunch, about 1:00 PM and carried through 4:00 PM when I re-entered the kitchen to start preparing the sides for the grilled main event; dinner. My lovely bride had done the prep work on some baby back ribs earlier in the day, peeling off the back membrane, slathering on some Sweet Baby Ray’s and beginning the slow cook process. Closer to 4:45, those nearly falling apart ribs would need to be transferred to the grill for a final char, converting that sugary sauce into caramelized and crispy edges all over those lovely slabs.

While I peeled corn cobs, I also cut up some potato slabs about ½ inch thick that would get coated in Italian salad dressing and also tossed on the grill. They take longer to char and cook through so they would hit the heat a little before the ribs joined the party. Suddenly I dropped a potato slab on the floor prompting our Beagle to jump out of his fluffy dog bed on recognizing the sound of opportunity. But, I immediately bent over to rob him of that prize, given it was one of the largest pieces cut from one of the largest potatoes on the cutting board. Thank you, Idaho. The bending however, prompted some sharp pain around the midsection, a hint of pressure radiating from my posterior and a mad dash to the guest bathroom closest to the kitchen.

I closed the bathroom door in haste which alerted the other residents as to my whereabouts, where I then turned on the exhaust fan for two reasons. First, it was just a simple concern about air quality and second, I hoped it might mask any noise emanating from the echo chamber that is our fully tiled powder room. It didn’t turn out to be a Mount Vesuvius event. It was more like a Great Lakes iron ore freighter’s fog horn. You get the idea. I mean, you clicked on the title of this blog so I hope you get the idea.

From the living room situated in a custom La-Z-Boy recliner more than 30 feet away that my wife uses as her knitting chair, I can hear her proclaim, “Oh my God!”

“Sorry”, was all I could muster.

“Leave the fan on”, was her reply.

The source of my malaise hadn’t been remedied yet I was sure of it, but I did actually feel a little better. While siting on the throne, I thought about King George and his unwitting participation in the creation of this holiday. Snippets of King George’s Hamilton lyrics came trickling back as I pictured the porcelain throne talking to me; “You’ll be back. Time will tell. You’ll remember that I served you well.” I tried to think about the things I had consumed the evening before that might be the cause of this discomfort. I thought about a study that had identified the toilet’s flush handle as one of the most germ contaminated areas in the home, though interestingly the study never mentioned the sink’s faucet handles which also get touched before anyone has a chance to wash. A glaring omission I thought. I placed my elbow on my knee and my fist under my chin waiting and hoping for more relief. I then wondered if this particular pose might have been Rodin’s inspiration for “The Thinker”. Was that dude really deep in thought or simply trying to pass the gaseous remnants from the previous day’s cabbage soup? I wonder.

There was alas, no more relief to be had so I flushed my dirty handle, washed my grubby paws and apologized to my wife once more as I passed her on my way back to the kitchen.

Big flat slices of potatoes and freshly doused slabs of ribs dripping with Bar-B-Que sauce were placed lovingly on the grill, and less than a half hour later we were at the table. Good food, a reasonably amicable family and a little fun were the unwritten rules for this day. We ate, we laughed, somebody asked why the bathroom fan was left on. Fingers were pointing my way, but I was too busy nibbling the blackened meaty tip off one of the bones. The ribs were fabulous as were the potatoes, but the pressure continued to mount.

After dinner clean up was done, I went off to our bedroom and showered, hoping the heat might trigger some added relief. At least the fan would be running here too and there were a couple more doors between me and the rest of the family to muffle any noise. I chose to seclude myself in the bedroom propped up on pillows, turned on the television above our dresser and waited for the Tiger Game to begin, trying carefully to make things as silent as I could should the occasional need arise. The need arose, like a clatter, and Santa was nowhere to be seen so that I could lay blame.

A couple hours later, the ball game had progressed to the final innings and it started to get dark outside. This was a cue for a couple of our neighbors to pull out those fireworks they had been saving the last few months. The volleys started around 9:30 PM and contained sounds mixed with whistles and crackles and an infrequent boom. It was the boom I was most interested in because I could time a “feel better” release alongside a boom and nobody would be the wiser. I found that rolling over on my one side, and then to the other aided gas movement through my innards ultimately leading to another joyous opportunity for relief. There was another boom, followed by a boom of my own and nobody in the other room had said a thing.

A little after 10:00 PM, the Tiger game had wrapped up with a 2-1 win over Cleveland and one more muffled firework boom could be heard off in the distance. The boom sound was prefixed with a slight hissing noise and if you didn’t know any better, it could be mistaken for a well formed flatulent. This last one actually prompted a yell from the living room. “Was that you?”

I had gotten away with so many during the ball game, I thought I just might take credit for that one. It was a good one too. Memorable. It shook the house a little. A quality fart that had fame without cause. I simply offered a one word response.

“Sorry”.

No I wasn’t.

While I’m sure the rest of the night was interrupted by an infrequent ruffling of the bed sheets, the next morning I felt completely tip top. Without a care in the world, I shuffled off towards the kitchen to add more breakfast ammunition to the breach and start my methane production all over again.

Apologies to all those who may have been grossed out by my little story, though I feel compelled to ask you, “Why did you read through to the end?” Some of it was fictional, but I had fun writing it. Smell you later…

“Sorry”.