My Albino Ex was (and may still be, though he is dating fancier women now) a man of few inhibitions. I believe I won his heart the first time we went out to view the Independence Day fireworks — 1998, think of it — and he ripped off a sonorous fart, about a G sharp above middle C, to which my only reaction was “Good intonation but needs more diaphragm support.” I’m a hornplayer’s daughter; fart jokes were in the air I breathed as a child, if that’s the way to phrase it.
There were times when he really pushed the envelope, but I have to admit his method for keeping civic meetings brief — which involved a preliminary meal at Hard Times Chili Cafe, with extra onions and habanero — might be profitably emulated by the US Congress.
I still send him things like this, which a comment over at Daddy Papersurfer’s caused me to recall.
The music is actually Rimsky-Korsakov, not Bach, but I claim poetic license.