Commando team rooms are sanctuaries, refugee rallies, areas of amnesty… they are no-kidding full-caliber FORTS—no girls allowed! Girls would not be permitted to enter, as they would wreck our fort! That being said, commandos have no aversion to spending a great deal of time in their team room havens.

In my own five-man Delta team room, we had one specific challenge; one Reverend Chill-D W. Now, it is understood that we all have an occasional onset of personal Gaseous Over-Pressure Affliction (GOPA). Be it consequent to a previous evening’s Mexican fiesta feast-Olé! or bout with broccoli, or just because the moon was blue last night… we all experience it occasionally.

A generous off-gas solution typically may take place outside, or in a out-of-the-way location largely devoid of incidental humans, or as with my own heroes, forcefully held within the confines of the body, to the extent that the body will systemically absorb its own gas.

Henry’s rule of solubility states: “at a constant temperature, the amount of a gas that dissolves in a liquid is directly proportional to the partial pressure of that gas in equilibrium with that liquid.”

Trouble yourselves not over the details, just be aware that Henry’s law supports the fact that the human body will absorb its own gas into its interstitial fluid volume; the more the pressure, the more the gas will be absorbed in fluids. As a combat diver, this becomes a critical for the consideration of dive injuries such as decompression sickness (the bends), and Air Gas Embolism (AGE).

Enter his holiness, the Reverend Chill-D W. Chill-D’s body was a nation-state factory of astronomical tidal volume of gaseous byproducts, largely without peer in modern civilization, or for that matter not since Cro-Magnon carved a cow in his cave. It really didn’t matter WHAT Chill-D ate, it produced gas at a rate that was exponential to the mass consume. Chill-D could sip feeble chicken broth, and drink warm water with a brown crayon dipped into it… and the wind would blow.