A story in two parts
Living alone has it’s perks. One being the ability to rip a mean fart with out judgement.
Or so I thought.
The other day I was laying in bed, enjoying my Saturday morning. It was a great morning – crisp and cold outside, toasty warm inside; Hemo was curled up on my chest rather than on my head. I stretched and let out a little fart. No biggie. I shook it out from underneath the blankets and dozed off. I woke up a couple minutes later and felt another fart coming somewhat reluctantly down the pike (I’d had some beers with friends the night before – you know how it is) and decided to give it a little help. Just a nudge to ease the pressure.
The loudest fart you’ve ever heard ripped out of my butt-hole and trumpeted though the house. I swear the blankets flapped around me. Ernie and Dexter, who were two rooms away, started barking like we were being attacked by an army of mailmen and came barreling down the hallway. Hemo jumped 2 feet in the air and streaked out of the room. It took me 20 minutes and a handful of treats to get everyone calmed down.
Last night I was one the phone with my sister, talking about how my dad’s wife sucks and how significant portions of my life are lost browsing Instructables and convincing myself that not only are tesla coil radios awesome but that I could make one myself by following the step-by-step instructions provided.
As I’m talking I (naturally) make my way to the bathroom. Just as I get comfortable, I tell my sister I’m going to have to call her back.
me: Beth, I’m going to have to call you back. I just farted in the toilet and the dogs are going ape-shit.
her: What? I can’t hear you.
me: Just…I’ll have to call you back. DOGS! CHILL THE FUCK OUT!