..and that's how grandma got a sunburn.
Let me explain...
I’m a pretty gassy guy.
I’m not sure why...
...as it’s not like all I eat is beans and squirt cheese.
(Great...now I want beans and squirt cheese)
...most days I'm surprised that I just don't up and fucking float away.
Maybe all guys are like this, I’m not sure...
...but if I lived in the Renaissance period, my official title would be “Sir Tootsalot.”
Now, I’ve known my wife for just about 20 years...
...and I think she’s farted in front of me MAYBE once – completely by accident.
As such, if I need to cut one it usually has to be in a separate room (per her strict instructions)...
...or I have to try to get away with it somehow.
The In-Bed Stealth Method:
My "in-bed stealth method" involves me quietly reaching back and stretching my butt cheeks ridiculously far apart...
...so as to make a perfect “O” with my cornhole...
...thus eliminating the possibility for any sound to escape by scratching the sidewalls as it exits.
(I learned how to do this watching porn)
If she hears me crack one outside, though, I’m always instructed to “shake out my pants” before I get in the car.
The "shaking of the pants" procedure ...
(which involves me smacking myself on the ass in public)
...is intended to release any previously trapped gases that may be lingering in my jeans...
...thus escaping into the vehicle when I sit down…
…violently killing all inside.
We had just left the restaurant with my family and I had a good internal bubble going.
This, for me, is typical.
I usually take the opportunity of the loud clamoring of the car doors opening/closing, etc., etc., to make my gas expulsion blend in with the surrounding sounds.
Timing it precisely here eliminates me from admonishment...
...and the subsequent “shaking of the pants” act in the middle of a fucking parking lot.
I waited until the decibel level in the area was high enough...
...then let ‘er rip.
If I had done this in an enclosed area, I can tell you that it would have been a bad one...
...because it came out HOT.
You know you've got a killer on your hands when it feels like you've farted the breath of the Devil himself.
(yes, now you know what Rachael Ray's breath is like)
Just for safety's sake, I rapped my butt one time with my hand to release the rest of the demons into the atmosphere before hopping into the car.
It was like an exorcism involving Levi's.
No one was the wiser.
(except for the pigeons I saw plummeting from the sky)
I stepped inside the car, closed the door and started putting on my seatbelt.
As I turned to grab the belt...
I saw her.
There...next to our car...I saw...
A little old lady sitting in the passenger seat of the car next to me.
She was staring at me.
Her window was cracked a bit.
Apparently, in my hurry to time everything just right, I neglected to see if there were any people in the general vicinity.
As such, I apparently aimed and shot that fucker right at her with full hurricane force.
My guess is that she was probably enveloped in my vaporized poo-cloud as we stared each other down…
...choking on it.
...she was dying.
I could see it in her sad little eyes:
Granny (pressing her hand to the window): “…why…?”
Me (pressing my hand to her window from the other side): "I'm so...sorry..."
Me (getting into car): "Okay...Who wants ice cream?!"
Meanwhile...The Coroner's Report:
Cause of Death: Asphyxiation from a toxic gas made of nachos, garlic mashed potatoes and beer.
I'm sure she's probably not my first victim...
...and she certainly won't be my last.
Just ask the pigeons.