When I was growing up, my family was famous among my friends for a lot of special things. The big dinners with rigatoni and london broil and cheap red wine. The haunted house extravaganza every Halloween. The menagerie of dogs, cats, hamsters, snakes and hermits crabs that would always be somewhere underfoot in the house. But the most distinguishing hallmark had to be (and there's no way to be delicate about this) the high level of wind breaking.

My father was the true patriarch in setting this fashion and his mantra on this action was decisive. He'd say to anyone who would listen, "Don't hold it in. You'll get a sideache." Indeed, he was a master in dispatching every odd squeal, squeak, snort or squawk that might be in him and it didn't matter who was around. My friends began to regard this as a form of benediction. They'd say, "If Ralph farts on you, consider it a sign of acceptance." I often had to brief unsuspecting dates in advance because my dad held it in for no man and a rip usually coincided with the handshake.

While dad was a no nonsense wind breaker, my mom was a bit more theatrical. She would temper any release until a moment when she knew she'd have her audience's attention. The leg would lift slightly in tantalizing fashion and an errant squall would blare forth. Because the mighty pitch of these eruptions were often unexpected and loud, they scared the bejesus out of us every single time. The catch phrase following one on mom's bellowing farts was "What the FUCK was that?" Yes, we all said that.

Now Grandma had a unique style all her own. She would often wait till you were sitting on the couch and would cozy over next to you. She'd then tilt her body to one side in order to force her bottom in your general direction. Taking aim, she'd fire one off. Now, that was bad enough, but her releases were long, squeaky, painful expressions of a gaseous stomach. Marv likened the sound to a rusty screen door with hinges that needed oiling.

MaryCatherineFullofGrace was a regular at the house and being the easy soul she is, fell right into the second language of our home. She'd always preface her delicate pooks with the expression, "Sergeant who?" I still don't know why. My brother's good friend Anus was another regular and he had that nickname for a very good reason. He didn't need encouragement to participate in the family activities and his noise level was comparable to the horn section for Earth, Wind & Fire.

As the second generation, we were mindful of the heady pressure of carrying the mantle of this tradition. Marv and I had to take it to the next level. Frankly, it's a miracle that we learned to exercise moderation when out among the general public. But when we're together, all bets are off. We've taken farting to the performance art level. One can not stand immobile and simply clear the colon. No. One must climb halfway up a wall and extend a leg in a pose worthy of Nureyev. The high kick and split is always a crowd pleaser. The spot turn. The bend-over-tuck-head-through-legs. The pelvic thrust. The cannon ball. The artistry is breathtaking, yet we still strive to better it each time.

And Fang? Don't get me started. The man has a black belt in this arena. He must have learned from his dad who lets it flow when nature commands. To me, these sounds resemble a angry goose call, but Fang's dad refers to it as "Kaczki Spiewaja!" (English translation: "The ducks are singing").

The noise is really the key here. Smell is an added benefit, but that's a subject for another day.