Flatulence in Sedona

Some things are just inherently funny. Like self-evident truths, they require no justification and need no explanation. They, in themselves, are simply hilarious, and everyone innately recognizes them as such. Examples could include the questioning of TFB's sexuality, the collected works of Michael Bolton, or anything involving David Hasslehof, Gargantus, or flatulence.

This past week while on vacation in Arizona, me and the wife had occasion to laugh at just such a profound little truth. I guess you could call it a religious experience. You see, it all happened at the Chapel of the Holy Cross in Sedona, Arizona (a crazy church designed by a Frank Lloyd Wright protege that is built right into the Sedona red rock).

After taking in the view and wandering about for a few minutes (it really is pretty breathtaking), we decided to go. In leaving, we followed a woman and her two daughters out of the chapel and down toward the winding path leading up to the shrine. Just as we got outside of the building, it came. A great big scorcher, ripping through the desert air and shattering the reverent silence on those hallowed grounds. As is often the case, it wasn't difficult to peg the culprit. The mother in front of us awkwardly tried to walk as though nothing were wrong while her daughters laughed uncontrollably. She tried to quiet them, but it was fruitless.

Naturally amused, I whispered to Melbo, "Did you hear that?" All I got has an elbow to the gut and an under-her-breath "Stop It!" It temporarily called into question one of the clarion truths I identified earlier: Isn't flatulence supposed to be funny to everyone?

The woman, meanwhile, began walking faster.

I again whispered to Melbo, "I think she's running from us." But Melbo wasn't convinced. So I pulled her alongside me and lengthened our stride.

The woman was ambling even faster now, leaving the giggling daughters in her wake. We broke into a healthy trot after her and passed her daughters. She responded with a gallop.

We continued to keep pace at a respectful distance (you see Melbo still doubted). But when so pressed, the woman abandoned all dignity with a full blown sprint toward her extended cab Ford F150. Her fleeting over-the-shoulder glances were enough to finally convert Melissa Melbo that she was, indeed, on the lam.

At that point we gave up the chase. Melbo was now conflicted though. She wanted to scold me for tormenting this woman, but she couldn't because she was trying too hard not to laugh. Serving only to prove my broader point here, that flatulence is funny, even at a sacred Arizonan Church and even by a mother (in fact, especially by a mother). I know the woman's daughters would agree, and I suspect that even she might.

I say this because as we drove away from the Chuch and passed her parked truck, I waved. And, although the woman's red face was buried deep within her cupped hands, I'm pretty sure I saw a big grin cracking through those fingers. Even the perpetrators can't help themselves.