Flatulence 2: I'm Still Going to Hell

Hello!! I know, I didn't post anything for a long time. It was a three day weekend, and I took it. I actually planned to write yesterday, but I was tired. But you know what? Now I have a shit-tonne of stuff to write about. So strap-in, strap-on, and get ready!!

I really want to emulate a great story and give the ending first. That way, when you hear the rest of the story, you will be like, "Yes, that was worth knowing." But you know what? Fuck it. I will briefly touch on Friday. My wife and I went to see the Tarzan movie. It was good. A lot of strong-ass men and animals fighting and killing a bunch of slave-driving assholes.

Saturday was a far less exciting day, until that night. Why was that night exciting? It wasn't. Our friend had a party, which turned into being my wife, myself, our friend, and another friend. We sat and talked and drank box-wine. Little known fact, I can drink an ass load of box-wine and not get drunk. Speaking of ass, I take issue with our friend's dog. Why? Because I am sitting there, and suddenly notice that my left foot started to feel warmer than the right. I then noticed the distinct smell of butt. Turns out our friend's dog farted on my left foot. That's right, my left foot had dog-butt cooties. I don't know if this is the beginning of a penance that G-d has planned for me, so that I can atone for the evil I unleashed on the airplane (Read: "Flatulence"), or if it was just a cruel turn of fate, but that was highly unpleasant.

Flash-forward to Saturday, when my wife and I are eating lunch with my parents. I was telling them the story of the dog fart, and my mother seemed to take particular joy in the discomfort it caused me. For whatever reason, I felt the urge to share my misery. I then proceeded to rub the top of my left foot on the side of her ankle, thus spreading the cooties. Now I know what some people are saying, "But cooties aren't real. And even if they were, they wouldn't last for 12 hours." Well fuck you, yes they are and yes they do. Cooties are real, and they're gross, and they last as long as the psychological trauma of the cooties are with you. And you know what? I did spread that shit. That's right. I am that asshole that feels mirth in knowing my misery is shared.

My mother, reacting to the event, immediately declared that I am going to hell, and that she will help me get there faster. She then said that she hopes our cat farts in my face. What I did not expect, however, was my wife's reaction. She immediately said, "Yeah, I will help. I will feed PiPi warm milk and hold his butt on your face. PiPi's fart smells awful. Just let you know. You're fucked." And like that, my wife turned on me. To be fair, I did do a dick-ish deed, but I was not prepared. On a side note, the alliteration related to saying "I did do a dick-ish deed, but damn." really makes me happy.

 

Moral of the Story: I firmly believe that the road to hell is lined with flatulence. Also, I still want to amputate my left foot.