Dear Editors,

The Sumerians carved it in stone. The Romans loved it in Latin. Chaucer let it loose in Middle English. Shakespeare refined it and left his audience gasping in the aisles. Gastrointestinal humor is as old as civilization itself—the diversion of kings, the pastime of the rank and file.

I am the author of more than a dozen academic articles on gastrointestinal humor. My work plumbs the depths of anatomy, etymology, volcanology, musicology, military ordnance, and cheese science.
“Run Silent, Run Deadly”—my explosive pamphlet on the Soviet submarine mutiny during the infamous Naval Cabbage Surplus of 1983—received a starred review in Intestinal Tracts, the official organ of the Society of Digestive Literatures. Perhaps you have encountered my self-published monograph, “Personal Exhaust”?

My life′s work has been to trace each risible emission to its obscure source. And yet, too often we scholars busy ourselves with rearguard actions, stagnating in the stale air of our ivory towers

After sifting through centuries of badinage, I believe I have at last succeeded in distilling the essence of one fragrant strain of mirth: I refer to the universal desire to determine the status of the flatus, the owner of the groaner, whom to thank for the “stank”—that is, the need to breezily assert that we, ourselves, are not the author of the cougher.

I submit to your publishing house the first-ever historical account of a crucial moment in the denial of the vile. It has remained a tightly held secret within my family. The time is ripe to give it wide release.

The following tale begins one balmy August afternoon in New York City, many years ago. . . .

Sincerely yours,
Edward H. Kafka-Gelbrecht