Give A Flying Fart...

Lemon County has an airport. Only problem, well one of several, is that along with terminals and planes and stuff, this airport also suffers from a major identity crisis.

It has far too many names. Not counting the initials (SNA) the first, which may be a reference of sorts to a Mexican General, or a Saint revered by a group of German dairy farmers, is Santa Ana, (not to be confused with Santa Anita which is a racetrack) The second possible moniker, refers to Lemon County's King of the Cowboys, John Wayne. Outside the county, however, most flight announcements use it's third handle, simply Lemon County.

Being the LC, John Wayne is definitely the better fit. We do our very best to ignore the fact that our beloved land was once the property of Mexico, and it is so hard to explain the whole idea of a farm, with cows and grass and all that, to the junior inhabitants of the County. "Don't be silly, milk comes from a carton..."

Now Mr. Wayne on the other hand, lived in the heart of the County, kept his boat in Newport Harbor for Pete's sake, so very much "one if us". It may, however, surprise a few inhabitants to learn that in fact John Wayne did not actually tame the wild west single handed, win world war two with a couple of his buddies, or actually become Irish to win Maureen O'Hara's heart.

He was in fact an actor.

Not really real, thus, the perfect representative of the “LC”.

Which really has nothing to do with what I wanted to say today, other than the setting.

Imagine if you will, the pristine environs of the men's restroom at 5:45AM on a business day. The first flights are gathering the intrepid into pre-boarding groups. Ready and waiting to enter the aluminum cylinders that will suck most of the moisture out them, the prisoners gird themselves. Bracing themselves for the seats that will realign their spines and eventually spit them out somewhere that isn't Lemon County.

Meanwhile the rows of restroom stalls are fully occupied. The first sitting is in progress and in the privacy-enforced hush; men are doing what they would rather be doing in their own homes with a newspaper and more time. The stifled grunts and occasional gaseous escape, notwithstanding, it is relatively quiet.

Lost in thought, the reverie is suddenly disturbed by a dramatic rift in the space-time continuum, and from a cubicle far at the end of the row, a raucous fart-splash rends the air. Amplified by the hard surfaces of the tiles, it has an impact close to a 5.1 on the Richter scale, followed by a single beat of time. Capitalizing on this unholy pause, a wag in a stall somewhere in the middle of the row, shouts out a lusty "Ole".

The spell is broken, the quiet gone, as thirty men with their pants around their ankles burst out in uncontrolled laugher. The loss of control has a dramatic effect on the assembled bowels and a fart-fest of spectacular dimensions ensues for the next several minutes.

Needing to make room for the second sitting, the men exit the cubicles somewhat sheepishly, trying to not look about the place too obviously, while trying to identify the players in the little drama. The grins on the faces of the exiting throng must have been baffling to those not party to the shared joke. For sure, the Mexican General and the "Duke” would have approved. Not so sure about St. Anne, and so totally not "Lemon County"...

One word, said with perfect comic timing, lifting the spirits of a sizable group of men who then took that all across America, a humor virus if you will.

One of Lemon County's better exports, I think.

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Homo Domesticus; A Life Interrupted By Housework,

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Chris