A bunch of us were sucking down suds in the bar of 
the Warner-Robins Holiday Inn when the subject of 
passing gas in the cockpit reared its odorous-head. 

“You ever flown with Skala? His SBDs (Silent But Deadly) 
will make your eyes water and he’ll look you right in the 
face and accuse you of it,” commented Dickie Stevenson as 
he poured himself another cool one from the pitcher.

“What about Moose Adams – his boomers sound like rolling 
thunder. I thought he was going to blow out the pressure 
bulkhead,” Jim Hamilton contributed.

“At least they don’t stink,” added Ed Kutchara.

 “I’ve got news for you men; it isn’t just the captains 
that suffer flatulence. Flash Gordon liked to drove me to 
wearing the oxygen mask on our last leg,” this from 
Captain Andy Andrechyn.

“I wouldn’t want to put that disease-laden thing on my 
face,” Jim said.

“You would if you flew with Flash; his discharges have 
been known to peal the paint off the instrument panel.”

“What about Boyd?”

“You mean Captain Fartmore? The worst.”

“Terrible, beyond belief.”

Flash capped the comments with; “Don’t light-up around him, 
he’s a fucking fire hazard.” 

“Gentlemen. Gentlemen.” Captain Andrechyn cleared his 
throat; it was apparent he was preparing to lecture us 
neophytes with one of his pearls of wisdom; “I can see 
it’s time to educate you in the fine art of quietly venting 
gauz without odor in the cockpit.” Reaching for more popcorn, 
he continued, “One day soon you will all be captains and it 
will be up to you to train your copilots in the proper 
technique of passing gas for the safety of the flight and 
the well-being of future crews.”

We all listened up; Andy was becoming a legend for his gems. 
“Pray tell us oh Wise One – how exactly does one fart like a 
butterfly,” I foolishly asked as I started to peel a 
hardboiled egg from the dish.

“Well the first thing you must understand is Douglas Aircraft 
is aware of the problem; crews have been letting go vaporous 
discharges of odeur de gauz in the cockpit since Orville 
launched his kite at Kitty Hawk. They have taken positive 
measures to provide crews with fart-proof seats.  Have you 
ever closely inspected a Douglas seat?” Andy fixed us all 
with his best command stare.

We copilots acknowledged it was not something covered by our 
check lists and therefore not something we’d given particular 
notice.

Andy’s voice took on the timbre of a lecturing college professor; 
“The fabric is stronger and of a weave that will allow for the 
blowing of gas into the foam cushion below. If you were to unzip 
the outer cloth you’d discover the top inch is of a fireproof 
open-cell composition that will filter the densest of feces laden 
clouds. The Engineering Department refers to it technically as the 
Douglas Fart-Filter. Of course below that is the more solid 
closed-cell composition that provides the support for your mostly 
dead-asses.” 

“You mean the Douglas designed cushion will take away the smell 
and silence the roar?” Jim asked in mock seriousness.

Expanding on his subject Captain Andrechyn continued; “It is not 
just a matter of releasing built-up pressure into the cushion; the 
person under strain must assume an upright posture and adjust his 
posterior so that his cheeks are spread a bit and his bunghole is 
actually pressing into the fart-filter…”

Dickie Stevenson interrupted Andy’s instruction with; “That sounds 
dangerous; what if you misjudged and soiled your pants?”

 “That is precisely why you carry spare underwear in your overnight 
bag,” Andy admonished.

“Still, that’s putting a lot of faith in the Douglas Fart-Filter.”

“Trust me and trust Douglas; it will work if you give it a chance 
and once more harmony will rein in the cockpit.”

“By the way, do any of you know the similarity between a cocktail 
lounge and an elephant breaking wind?” Dickie asked the group.

“Oh come on,” Ray Roy responded, “Every one knows one is a barroom, 
while the other is a BAH-ROOOM!”

“Just thought I’d ask,” Dickie replied as we all shook our heads at 
his dated joke.

We finished off two more pitchers of beer, five bowls of popcorn and 
the dozen free hardboiled eggs the bartender had set-up. I wondered 
if Andy’s idea would work but decided with Dickie; it was just too 
risky – a fart loaded with a surprise could spoil your whole day. 
And besides, what if the other guy hadn’t heard Andy’s lecture – 
I needed ammunition for self-defense.

Emptying our glasses for the last time someone seriously wondered 
why there was so much foul air in the cockpit. “I think it has 
something to do with the altitude and pressurization,” belched 
Jim Hamilton as we all shuffled off for our afternoon siestas.