FREQUENT FLYER FLATULENCE

I wasn't going to cover the story about the flatulent woman who lit matches on an American Airlines flight to cover her foul smells (forcing the pilot to make an emergency landing), but readers have been insisting I do. It seemed too sophomoric for PNL however, there are constitutional issues at play here, so I am making a one-time exception.

That an in-flight passenger would be deplaned prematurely for attempting to remedy an ill wind, most would agree, infringes on self-incrimination protections. After all, one cannot pop a mint after one's nether region betrays one. It does no good to close the barn doors after ole Nelly is on the loose. And mint suppositories have not, to my knowledge, been invented.

There are cover-up sprays, but airlines have banned aerosols. The only proven way to eliminate cheek gas is to incinerate it. We can't put the genie back in the bottle, but we can scald the rude intruder. For those wanting to land with the plane, there are other methods.

A frequent-flyer friend of mine tells me he unscrews and aims the overhead fan nozzle when he needs to dissipate his trouser burps. While the odor is not vented outside the plane, it does get pushed across the aisle, where he can then look in dismay at its new owner.

A couple of words of caution, however. This method of vectoring fouled air works only if you're in an aisle seat. And on long, cross-country flights, the "Vector-and-Dismay" method gets old. At this point, either a seat reassignment, or an antacid is recommended.

Once, while experiencing turbulence on flight to San Diego, I unknowingly passed such offensive gas, all 319 oxygen masks but mine dropped down. "Hey, where's my mask?" I called out, playing the call button like clarinet.

Foolish me thought it was an emergency depressurization event! Your own never smell so bad. Besides, who knew they could selectively drop the breathing apparatus? Did the pilots program each of the 319 face masks to drop individually -- or simply deactivate mine, I wondered. They obviously have too much time on their hands.

Anyway, after permanently disabling my call button, my stewardess assured me my oxygen mask would have deployed properly -- had it been authorized. It took the flight attendants from Dallas to Bakersfield to stuff all 319 face masks back into their 319 little overhead cubbies.

Aside from being rammed a few times by the food cart, I think I was forgiven. But this got me to thinking, why not use the oxygen masks routinely to counter smelly accidents and food? Airlines could even charge a few bucks for them, as they do for head sets.

I have an aging dog who, on long car trips, fills the cabin with bad air. Even in winter, my family is forced to ride with the windows half-open. In stop and go traffic, we take turns doing Chinese fire drills in order to breathe.

Fouling the air is embarrassing, even for a dog. After passing wind, our old pooch will attempt to hide, which in a car (or an elevator) is hard to do. He tries to dig a hole in the fine Corinthian leather that was my back seat, presumably to den. Our other dog, though a butt sniffer, is intolerant of butt air, so he rides in the trunk. On planes, both go third class: cargo.

Richard Reid, the would-be Shoe-Bomber, ruined it for all in-flight, flatulent match-strikers. Airline passengers associate the smell of burnt matches with real bombs and will panic at the sight of a matchbook. Long gone are the good old days, when fliers could just light up and blow smoke rings out both ends.

Someday plane seats will be designed with negative pressure pores that suck away that embarrassing fruit of the looms. Until that time, flatulent flyers could simply be Glad-bagged. While there are government rules against photographing deplaned body bags, there are no restrictions on ones containing live bodies. Best of all, the large 750-liter bags come in twist-tie or zip-lock versions.

Bagging offensive air passengers would not only give them a dose of their own medicine, it would eliminate the need for unscheduled stops.

MAKING THE GRADE

It all started with a note from our daughter's high school guidance counselor. "Your daughter received a C-minus on an English Lit paper," she wrote, "and we need to see you at your earliest convenience."

You need to see us over a C-minus? What the hell is so ominous about that? I'll admit, it's not the greatest grade in the world, but a school conference?...at your earliest convenience? It's not like she pilfered the vice-principal's petty cash drawer during detention, as I was once accused.

So anyway, with great anticipation my wife and I go meet with the guidance counselor. When she entered the room, her stricken look indicated she had grim news.

"I'm sorry we have to meet under such sorry circumstances," Dr. Schlanger said solemnly. Your daughter's English Lit teacher wrote me a shocking note and I felt the need to communicate it to you as quickly as possible."

"Of course, of course," we said in unison. "What? What?"

"Your daughter didn't write this paper, did she?" the counselor said, shoving the assignment towards me.

After a quick glance, shameful shame came over me. Years of guilt welled forth and, coupled with my fear of authority, it all became more than I could bear. Falling on my sword, I spilled:

"Oh, Dr. Schlanger," I said, trying not to smirk while enunciating her evocative name, "I am soooooo sorry. Look at me. Look how sorry I look." I curled my lips for emphasis, and in my best English, continued:

"It was a dark and stormy night, and my daughter couldn't seem to complete her assignment. I begged her to focus on the task at hand, but alas, she fiddled with her lip gloss and rearranged the items on her desk a dozen times -- anything but buckling down and doing her best work."

At this point I looked up to make sure Dr. Schlanger was sufficiently empathetic. Satisfied, I continued:

"Anyway, I was sooo tired, and I knew I couldn't stay awake much longer, so I sat down at my daughter's computer and tried to coax the words from her lips. But still she fiddled -- this time with her iPod accessories -- and then she changed the subject altogether -- to her ridiculously long Christmas list."

Again, I locked onto Dr. Schlanger's eyes to see if I was having any impact. Seemingly on a roll, I ramped up my confession.

"Soon, I found my fingers typing words I was hearing, but -- I'm sooo sorry -- this has never happened before-- the words I was hearing, quite possibly, may not have been hers. I fear I may have written that paper -- with the best of intentions, of course -- only to restore peace, and to ensure that my ever-so-tired child receive enough sleep to achieve a better tomorrow."

When I came out of my trancelike speech, both Ms. Schlanger and my wife were slack-jawed. Silence filled the room. Was it that bad? Could I go to jail for this? Had I overdone it a bit? Or, perhaps, not gone far enough? Must I start to cry?

I began to begin again, when Ms. Schlanger cut me off. "Thank you, Mr. Reynolds, for your honesty. But I haven't called you here today to talk about your daughter."

Well thank God for that, I thought, giving my wife the thumbs up sign under the table.

"Your daughter's doing great," Dr. Schlanger said. "In fact, she got an A-plus on the last paper she wrote in class."

"Now we're talking," I said. I winked at my wife.

"What I'm concerned about," Dr. Schlanger continued, "is that a large, 50-something man would get a C-minus on a freshman-level English Lit paper."

X-MAS: NAUGHTY OR NICE?

Every year as a child -- precisely twelve days before Christmas -- I'd start thinking seriously about getting nice. My Christmas list was so long, and my sister so well-behaved, that competing with her in the "niceness" department for Santa's limited Christmas funds was no small task.

Two weeks of goodness would have been too long for me, and one week seemed opportunistic. Twelve days, as in "The Twelve Days of Christmas," felt right.

There were friends of mine who didn't care about being nice. Danny would go around the neighborhood lifting the front ends of plastic reindeer over the rear ends of their herd mates, leaving yard displays looking like porn palaces.

Jimmy would go house-to-house unscrewing one light bulb from homes outlined with lights, leaving the sorry owner to figure out which malfunctioning bulb --out of millions -- made his house go dark.

Aside from putting a few lawn sheep up in trees, I never went to the naughty side at Christmas time. Twelve days of goodness was not too much to bear for toys needed to get me through the next twelve months.

So I was surprised to hear that "Pornaments" are such a hot-selling item this holiday season. Don't these people know they're being watched?

Pornaments, for you prudes out there, are just that. There's "Mr. North Pole," pointing north, just as you would expect. There's "Tormented Teddy," terribly tied in X-mas lights. There's "Horny the Snowman" with a nasty-looking carrot. And poor Santa, strapped spread-eagle to a Christmas wreath. Not nice stuff.

Anyway, "Pornaments" is the fastest growing X-mas category after Victoria's Secret. No longer nativity scenes and candy canes, the high holy holidays are taking on a freaky frolicking friskiness not seen in Christmases past. God knows I'm a non-Believer, but these people need to get to church.

Even as a practical matter, it seemed foolish to me to blow it all in the 12-day X-Mas countdown. All those Brussels spouts you swallowed whole, all those dirty magazines you didn't steal, all those "please and thank you's," would all be for naught. How hard is it not to be naughty for twelve lousy days?

Jesus, what is with these people?

Naughtiness is definitely a part of all morality plays, and the Christmas story is no exception. Niceness owes itself to its unselfish counterpart, naughtiness. Were it not for naughty children sacrificing their presents, there'd be no presents for the nice children. So badness has it points.

I don't know if it was Abu Ghraib that changed things, but I am drawn to the Santa Torture Wheel. There's something about seeing Santa in his skivvies putting the "X" back in X-mas that cracks me up. It's the one thing Donald Rumsfeld and I have in common. Does this make me a bad person? I don't want to do anything that would jeopardize my wish list.

PNL PRESENTS...

It is better to give than to receive -- that is, if you're one of the good people. I don't like either much but I'll admit, we don't always have an easy time showing our love to those dearest to our hearts.

The flip side of the commercialism taking over the holidays, is that we can express our appreciation for those special people in our lives through our gift giving. Our children, our parents, our friends, and our mail carriers are all vital to our happiness and should be remembered at this time of year.

But what do we get them? It's always such a hassle. There are only so may fruitcakes, slippers, tea strainers, and cappuccino makers a person can take. Garages are already spilling over with last year's presents. And making presents for those on our present list is way too time-consuming. Just because we love them, doesn't mean they're worth our time.

My wife is very close with our dear neighbor, a nurse named Jeanie. She had already gotten her a yoga CD for Christmas, but wanted to give her something really special. She told me she was thinking of getting Jeanie a hot water bottle as well.

A hot water bottle? Christ, is that the sexiest present you could think of, honey? I asked.

"Well, I don't ordinarily buy neighbors sexy presents," she explained. Besides, she said, Jeanie had always liked our daughter's hot water bottle, so she thought she'd get her one too.

Sweat Pea, I said. Think about it. You're going to give our dear neighbor, Jeanie, a hot water bottle for Christmas? Why don't you just give her a rectal thermometer with a nice red bow and be done with it?

I know it's the thought that counts, Snookums, but what the hell are you thinking? I said in my nicest, most soothing voice.

Look, some things just don't make good Christmas presents, I calmly told my wife. Sure we all need toilet paper, I reasoned, but you would never give it as a present, would you? While she was pondering this, I, myself, starting thinking it not such a bad an idea -- after all, they do come individually gift-wrapped.

When I snapped to, I suggested that things reminding one of doody, warts, phlegm -- or in this case, nausea -- rarely make good presents. For example, Kleenex? Terrible present. Preparation H? Denture adhesive? Crescent-shaped bedpans? All terrible presents.

Other presents never to give include: Syringes. Enemas. Urine collection bottles. And Diamonique rings from Home Shopping Network. Give these things, and next year's present list will shrink to zero.

Not buying my argument, my wife said hot water bottles were not just for upset stomachs. Neighbor Jeanie could warm her feet against it on a cold winter's night, and besides, hot water bottles are nice to sleep with after a night of yoga exercises.

God knows I like something warm in my bed, but not something that smells like warm rubber. There are people who sleep with plastic, life-sized blow-up dolls but like yoga, I think that's a stretch. I can only speak for myself, but I'm pretty sure these people like to buy their own.

Once, as a boy, a warm pleasurable feeling came over me in my sleep. I dreamt I was scoring with Eva Gabor. When I awoke, not only was I without Eva Gabor, it turned out my hot water bottle had opened in my sleep and I had third-degree burns on my green acher.

To this day, hot water bottles, ginger ale and "dry" toast remind me of the stomach flu. I begged my wife to reconsider her present choice.

The mail and newspaper delivery people are always kind enough to leave me a Christmas card with a postage-paid, self-addressed envelope. In past years I have mailed them back with a cookie enclosed -- requiring $0.65 postage due. This way I'd get the pleasure of giving, plus I'd get the cookie back.

This year, I'm thinking of giving my daughter's hot water bottle to the mailman. Not knowing it's ours, my wife will be thrilled getting the bottle without having to pay the postage due. Most importantly, my good neighbor will have warm feet, and I will, once again, feel the pleasure of knowing that "the gift is in the giving."

A SKEPTIC'S CHRISTMAS

This is that warm, fuzzy time of year that I get all choked up and sentimental, even reverent. I know many of you think I am a raging atheist but, believe it or not, I actually enjoy the spiritual aspects of Christmas. There have even been rare but confirmed sightings of me in church around the holidays. The choral music, the cookies, the lights, the cookies, the smell of pine... mixed with cookies -- it's a wonderful time.

I don't know if you know this but once, after too much eggnog, Jesus appeared before me on Christmas eve and questioned my lack of Belief. "Here I sit before you," the Lord said, "talking with you, joking with you -- and still you doubt the existence of the Holy Spirit. What is it with you skeptics?"

After cautioning him to go easy on the eggnog, I told Jesus his points were only valid if I actually existed. If he could prove I existed, that would be sufficient. He looked at me, shook his head, and got up to leave. I said, look, I'll settle for any sign: how about a jar of herring and cream sauce under the tree? That way, at least, I'd get a jar of herring with the nice crunchy onions out of the deal.

Christmas morning came and there was no jar of herring under the tree. There was one in my stocking -- but technically, that shouldn't count. Skeptics need to get things precise.

That being said, at times, we must all suspend our disbelief in order to enjoy the fruits of irony. This is the time of year I let go and let Jesus have his day. After all, it is his Birthday. Jesus and I joke about each other's resurrection --I tell him he has resurrectile dysfunction -- and he tells me I'll rot in Hell -- you know, playful guy stuff. Sometimes our feelings get hurt, but hey, it's all in good fun.

Anyway, this is the time of year I take the family out Christmas tree shopping. I always manage to get a tree that is seven feet taller than our ceilings, forcing me to discard the top half. Buying a proper-sized tree would cut its price in half, but by cutting the tree in half, I don't have to admit to low ceilings. Missing its taper, the tree ends up looking like a spiral staircase.

My wife likes the free-range, natural trees with no branches, and my daughter likes the farmed bushy ones that grew up on Miracle Grow. Every year we fight over which kind of tree to get and, being the peacemaker in the family, I remind my daughter that Christmas is not about the children.

According to my wife, the emaciated trees that grow naturally under the forest canopy are perfect for hanging Christmas balls. They are reminiscent of the old-fashioned, 19th-century feather trees that were made from bird feathers and dyed green. If you don't mind Christmas trees made from died animal parts, feather trees festooned with Christmas balls are lovely as well.

Buddy Hackett once told Al Franken a related story that I'll never forget. It seems a man went to his doctor worried about a green spot that had suddenly appeared on his forehead. After close inspection the concerned doctor told his patient he was so sorry, but in 14 days a penis would grow out from where the spot had been. The man freaked. How would he cope Christmas morning seeing a penis on his forehead while shaving? It won't be so bad, the doctor assured him. The balls will hang down and cover your eyes.

I just love Christmas stories! Anyway, the balls hang down from our sorry Christmas boughs, and not only do the trees come alive -- but Jesus, and Buddha, and Buddy, and Al-Franken all come alive as well. Life is funny, and isn't that the greatest gift of all?

GETTING FLEECED

Everywhere you go today, people are knitting. Not since voodoo and tattoos have the needle arts been so mainstream. No longer the realm of grannies, men, women, children -- even domesticated chimpanzees have taken up knitting in this most unlikely of fads.

I think it's just great. Is it me, or does knitting seem a tad repetitive? On more than one occasion, I've watched my wife grow disenchanted with a knit she's spent a hundred hours on, only to pull out all the stitches and start again.

It drives me crazy. I won't even make another omelette if it falls on the floor. I'm down there on all-fours, fighting off the dogs for the ham chunks.

Who the hell cares if there's one botched stitch 14,000 stitches ago? My wife cares. She'll unravel an eight-foot long scarf if she notices a "dropped stitch" made back when the scarf was the size of a pot holder. It drives me nuts.

She tells me her knitting is like writing -- well maybe not like my writing, but others' writing. Knitting is a craft and, as such, she will do a piece over-and-over until she gets it right.

For Christ's sake, knitting is not like writing. But if you want to force the analogy, it would be like me writing, i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i for ten hours, then am, am, am, am, am, am, am, am, am, am, am, am, am for another ten, then getting fancy -- I'm getting happy fingers now --bored-bored, bored, bored-bored, bored, bored-bored, bored, and so on, only to find out two days later that I don't want it in the "first person," and having to start all over again.

There are two knitting clubs in town: The Knitwits and The Hookers. The Hookers are technically crocheters and are frowned upon by The Knitwits. I don't know what their turf battle is all about, but I'm wary of any ideologues who carry pointed weapons in flowered bags. They seem to hover around yarn stores like moths to a 40-watt bulb.

Not long ago, I went to buy my wife one last small birthday present at the local yarn shop. The Yarn People were there knitting away. Pretending to know what I was doing, I was fingering through the merchandise and squeezing the yarn balls like I was buying avocados. Finally a suspicious clerk came over and asked if I needed some help.

I was shown some pattern books. Pointing to a nice-looking turtleneck sweater, I asked where I might find that yarn. Thirty minutes later, when the clerk finished telling me everything I ever wanted to know about sheep hair, I was told she didn't have that yarn.

I picked out another simple-looking garment, an ankle-length sweater-coat with ruffled collar, I believe it was. It was cool. Even the buttons were knit. This time she had the yarn -- but not enough of it. After several such dead ends, I was ready to velcro the wool clerk to the pattern hanging on the wall.

It was at this point the clerk started questioning my wife's knitting ability. Hey, no one questions my wife's knitting ability. Not even me. "Oh, she's the Westchester champion at purl-casting," I said, "dropping" two of the three terms I knew. I prayed the clerk wouldn't ask me to elaborate. Then she looked up my wife's record in her computer.

"You know, she's only made scarves and hats before," the clerk said. I assured her my wife was well beyond that now, and pointed again at the sweater pattern.

Anyway, to make a long story short, I finally found a box full of "skeins" that had been died in the wool in the same batch (important, I learned) and proceeded to checkout. The clerk told me I was a very nice man for buying my wife this present. I didn't know how nice I was until the register tape was pressed into my hand.

"$276.34 please." When the clerk revived me, she told me she had made a mistake in ringing it up. No shit Sherlock, I said. She had forgotten to add in the tax.

I pleaded with the clerk, "Do you know you can buy an already-made sweater at Kohls for a tenth that price?" She patted me on the shoulder and helped me sign the sales slip. I reminded her we were talking sheep fur, not Parisian silk.

On the way to the door, I spied the circle of in-store knitters -- The Hookers by the looks of them -- busy knitting away, pretending not to notice my elevated stress levels. I reminded everyone within earshot that my wife would be supplying the labor -- I was only looking to buy the yarn. Next thing I knew, I was on the outside looking in.

The clerk later told my wife (when she was in exchanging my gift) that the knitting class could hear me muttering all the way to the car, "I was only looking to buy some yarn, I was only looking to buy some yarn...."

PARK-ME-ELMO

Just as I was getting comfortable having autos tell drivers where to turn, now one of those new-fangled cars, a Lexus I believe, does the one thing my mother, my sister, my wife and my daughter have never done successfully. Parallel park.

With the exception of my 14-year old daughter, whose unblemished parking record owes itself to her non-driving status, all the others have peeled back the sides of their cars and returned home with no explanation for why their vehicles shed their passenger sides. Maybe it's just my family.

Anyway, as an excellent parallel parker, I'm skeptical of machines entrusted to perform such complex tasks as parallel parking. A one-time resident of New York City, I learned to routinely shoehorn cars into spaces smaller than they were.

With a combination of advanced physics and wanton nudging, I was able to fit 10-foot cars into 6-foot spaces. After airbags were introduced, this was no longer possible. Even wearing a football helmet, the bags took their toll.

But even now when I parallel park, you can barely slip waxed dental floss between my car's bumper and those who would sandwich me in. And I've never picked up as much as a scratch.

Please understand me. Men are not better drivers than women. But historically, men have had to do the heavy parking. Backing chariots into parking spaces could not have been easy for gladiators in ancient Rome. And I don't expect women to see parked cars as the personal threats I do. Call it a blind spot, but I won't ask strangers for directions, and they won't learn how to parallel park. Or back up for that matter.

Why do certain people look out the front window when they are backing up? They'd prefer to see the world moving away from them, than the 90-year old man with osteoporosis flailing beneath their rear tires. My wife once dragged a Walmart shopping cart that had become wedged under her car, all the way home: a trip of 25 miles. Thank God the woman pushing the cart had let go.

My mother once tried to back out of parking space facing the front of a laundromat. She thought she had the car in "Reverse," so naturally she was looking out the front windshield at the laundromat. As it turned out, the car was in "Drive" and straining against the cement restrainer designed to keep her car from entering the laundromat.

Thinking it a problem of throttle, Mom goosed the gas. When the four-barrel kicked in, she hopped over the restrainer, and rocketed through the window of the laundromat. The sympathetic cop trying to calm her, explained she must not have seen the window getting closer given she was looking behind her. No, she corrected him. She saw the whole thing.

I could go on. I remember my sister, after getting a fill-up, backing away from the gas pump and into a telephone pole. The telephone man working at the top of the pole was catapulted to a different area code.

And my wife actually backed over a deer. Can you imagine the look on that deer's face? It was the first deer in history to be killed while frozen in the tail-lights.

Look -- who's counting? We've all had our mishaps. I don't want to get ahead of myself, so I think I'll backup for a moment.

Where was I? Oh, right. A self-parking car. Who would trust a car to parallel park itself? I mean, there are going to be times when you'll be parking between a Porsche and a Jaguar. Serious cars. What -- is Toyota going to send those nice rich people cashier's checks when some little diode goes blink in my Lexus -- and I leave $200,000 worth of cars looking like Sunni limos at a Shia wedding?

At least with Voice Navigation, the worst that can happen is you fall in love with the robo-woman giving you directions. Just don't ask her for directions on how to parallel park.

So, unless you're not a man, pass on the "Park-Me-Elmo" feature. You could well find yourself explaining to the very officer who just bent you over the back of your Lexus, how you destroyed three cars with one ill-conceived push of a button.