My guts are making noises like a 60's Jacques Costeau special. There's stuff creaking and bubbling and gurgling around in there that's unbelievably disgusting sounding.
Makes me glad I'm at home today. If I was at work I'm sure the neighbors would hear, and possibly get sea-sick or otherwise nauseated, thinking they were on a sailing vessel that has some very noisy lines a-rubbing and a platoon of bell-helmeted divers blowing rafts of bubbles at irregular intervals up from the sulfuric depths of the sea floor.
But no, it's simply my colon.
I'm almost afraid to be around when whatever it is in there tries to make its escape. Yes, I know how foolish that sounds, but YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Admit it - sometimes farts are enjoyable, and sometimes they are hot blasts of hate from a gut that obviously is occupied digesting all the hurts of youth and disappointments of old age, distilling them down into the most noxious of methane-based anal outpourings as a means of divesting the psyche of old wounds...
This next round of whatever makes its way out my personal butt? Is going to be awful, I can just tell. I'm guessing that my bowels are taking handsful of elementary school awkwardness, mixing them up with some good old fashioned high-school self-loathing, sprinkling with a dash of awful names people have called me, and are brewing up that noxious stew for a dinnertime offering of the utmost offputting reek.
Perhaps now's the time for me to run some errands. With the car windows wide open. IN FEBRUARY. Let's just hope I don't get stopped by a cop who thinks I'm drunk (open windows in cold weather being a sure sign), only to be greeted by my sad state of affairs which will of course have been enhanced by the stress of being stopped by Johnny Law for no good reason, perhaps kicking off a fear of being sent to the pokey where large angry women will be waiting to shiv me between the shoulder blades and carve the tattoos out of my skin, tanning it to make a nice little clutch purse in which they'll carry the money they took off me in the holding cell.
Probably won't, thought, because what those girls and that cop don't know is that this gas I have? Will KNOCK THEIR ASSES OUT and I shall gain my freedom on the strength of their potency! Ha HA, copper! Ha HA, angry cellmates! You cannot fight MY powah! Oh no!
Hey - one has to work with the gifts one has been given. Extra-stinky farts in copious amounts? Might just be one of MINE.
As you can tell, I really have nothing to write about. So today you get farts.
Oh! that begs a question - do you have any memorable fart stories? I, to nobody's surprise, do. For example, there was that one time after Thanksgiving dinner when I tooted for over a minute whilst supposedly 'going to bed' in my cousin's room (all 5 cousins in one room, having a farting contest. After Thanksgiving dinner! It was, as you can imagine, simply awesome!).
Or the time I passed wind on a boyfriend (THE HORROR!!) when he ran up behind me and caught me in a sudden bear hug. Girl cannot protect herself assiduously enough against shit like that, you know?
Or the time I almost fainted from the PAIN of having to hold in a particularly HUGE bubble of gas because I was presenting at a meeting. It was one of those that I'm sure if you were looking at my stomach you'd have thought an alien was about to pop out, so violent were the shiftings and reshiftings of gas. Sweat, literally, broke out on my forehead, and I got all dizzy-like from the effort of trying to contain myself. Absolute misery, is what I'm saying. What was worse though, was that when I COULD go relieve myself, the gas had worked its way back UP and spent the afternoon distending my transverse colon, an experience worse than childbirth in the intensity of the pain. Nothing you can do about it, either, except sit there and pray to God you don't pass out from the pain, which would cause you to hit your head on the desk, which would knock you facedown on floor, where, with your butt now pointing upward, you begin degassing in an audible and ghastly smellable fashion. Nobody's going to want to help revive Stinky Girl, and the shame of having to walk into work the next day KNOWING that you'd broken wind in front of people you work with but barely know? It's enough to make a girl take the afternoon off to go home and fart in the comfort of her own home.
Which, as I recall, is what I did.
Do tell me that I'm not the only one with memorable fart tales, won't you? And have a lovely day.