The Territorial

They say opinions are like buttholes, everybody’s got one, and nobody really wants to hear yours unless it agrees with theirs. That’s fine enough wisdom for a bumper sticker, but Hank Dillard had taken it a step further.

He believed the real trouble with the world wasn’t that folks had opinions, it was that they were too afraid to “fart in public,” metaphorically speaking. Now, Hank wasn’t talking about the literal kind of flatulence, though the line between metaphor and methane had never been clear for him.

He meant that people were so scared of offending, embarrassing, or standing out that they held everything in, ideas, laughter, truth, even joy, until they bloated with it. You could see it in their tight smiles and rigid shoulders, as if the whole country was walking around mid-clench.

He first noticed it at the town’s annual chili cook-off, which, incidentally, was also the perfect setting to study both types of gas release. There was Mild Mary, who always said she liked everyone’s chili, even though everyone knew hers tasted like straight tomato paste.

Then there was Bill “No Beans” Baxter, who believed the inclusion of beans was an affront to the chili gods. Every year, he’d announce, “Real chili don’t need beans,” and every year, someone would mutter that Bill didn’t need to talk, either.

But that particular year, something remarkable happened. Hank, who’d been sampling his way through the cook-off with a judge’s badge and an iron stomach, noticed the tension building around the long table of crockpots.

Folks were smiling too tightly, agreeing too quickly. Someone made a bland joke about the weather, and everyone laughed like they were getting paid by the chuckle.

That’s when Hank cleared his throat, leaned back in his chair, and said, “You know, if opinions are like buttholes, this here tent’s the most constipated place in the county.”

The laughter that followed wasn’t polite. It was the kind that escapes before you can stop it, the kind that comes from deep down, shaking loose whatever was stuck.

People started actually talking then, arguing, even.

Mild Mary admitted she hated her own chili but entered every year for the socializing. Bill confessed that his no-beans policy started after his ex-wife took the recipe in the divorce.

Someone suggested adding pineapple to chili, and instead of gasping, half the people in the tent wanted to try it. It was glorious chaos.

Afterward, as the sun set and the air carried that familiar mingling of spices and consequences, Hank leaned back against his truck and watched people linger, laughing and talking real. He thought about how simple it had been, a single honest “fart” of truth, if you will, to break the tension.

The world, he decided, could use a bit more of that. Folks wouldn’t be so uptight if they just let their thoughts out now and then, even the awkward or unpopular ones.

Maybe we’d find out we’re not all that different, just full of the same air, trying not to make noise. Hank figured that’s what courage really was: not the absence of fear, but the willingness to clear the air anyway.

And as he climbed into his truck, he muttered to himself, “Yep, a little honesty goes a long way, and not just downwind.”

He started the engine, drove off into the evening, and somewhere behind him, a ripple of laughter rose again from the fairgrounds. It sounded a lot like relief.