Crime and flatulence

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

By Galloping Grandma

There has been a big city crime wave in my hometown of Corn Cob, Iowa. On Super Bowl Sunday, Bob’s Happy Time Potato Chip truck was hijacked and found abandoned behind the Farm Bureau building. Curtis Krutch, the driver, was hogtied and deposited on a pile of squashed corn chips. Nothing was taken other than the pork rinds and Cheetos. Curtis thought it was a bunch of kids on a way to a party and the police aren’t sure it’s a felony, but Curtis smells like grease and Doritos either way.

Speaking of kids, Leonard Fungo, the principal of the Hickenlooper Junior High in Silo City, has declared his school to be flatulent-free. Anybody caught flatulating will be sent home. I don’t think he’s referring to that sneaky aroma that sneaks up on you and scorches the wallpaper, or those noxious vapors that dog emits under the table during the dinner, but VOLUNTARY flatulence; the kind closest to the heart of adolescent males and considered their constitutional right. All young males feel it’s the duty to fill up with air and soda pop and then let loose at some inappropriate time, like study hall, church or their sister’s piano recital.

Half of the seventh grade has already been sent home. The eighth grade boys’ gym class is staging a “fart-in” at the principal’s office and their class president has already called a lawyer and contacted the ACLU. He thinks that interfering with the inner workings of a young male is ‘cruel and unusual punishment’ and forbidden by the Bill of Rights. It is unclear whether this also applies to huge belches, or a combination of both. This may reach the Supreme Court, and while they’re waiting, the ninth grade shop class sprayed the principal’s office with a can of Phart, a fragrant reminder that things must change.

It will soon be St. Patrick’s Day, a unique event in a Norwegian community. Everyone is wearing green and Mable Gund has had her newly-removed gall stone polished and mounted on a ring. It’s green and quite pretty. The old Hog Town Grill throws a great party every year - there’s nothing like a bunch of Norwegians, facedown in the parking lot, heaving up green beer and pickled herring. Freud said the Irish were the only people he couldn’t psychoanalyze and I don’t think he ever mentioned the Norwegians, not that he’d want to.

Meanwhile, my husband’s friends are complaining that I am mean to him in my column. I told him that I made him famous, and an icon, and that he’s become a “babe magnet” and if his old fart friends are jealous, let their wives write about them. But I can’t imagine why they’d want to.
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