Juvenile Humor

I think it might run in my family. When I was a kid I remember my dad farting. Not just little squeakers, but full blown blasts that would puff out his pajamas in the rear like the Goodyear blimp. As for me, all it takes is the slightest divergence from my normal dietary repertoire, and I am tooting away like a Harley Davidson. I have seen a product on the internet for converting blasters into silent but deadly puffs of gas, and have considered ordering one up. The problem with that product is that it involves sticking a tube up your ass and leaving it there, and it does nothing to alleviate the odor.

My old routine of blaming it on the dog, or if he's not around the cat, just isn't working. What is worse is that for the last week Chandler has had some kind of gastrointestinal problem, and has been releasing some extremely noxious fumes around the house. Mark wasn't buying my claims that it was the dog farting, and kept blaming the rotten smell of sulfur on me. Well yes, I am quite the gas bag at times, but I have never smelled as bad as Chandler's farts have this week. I was finally vindicated last night, when Mark was alone in the bedroom with the dog. With me nowhere near the area, it became quite apparent who was stinking up the room. I'm glad Chandler has finally revealed his guilt. It allows me more leeway in the future for when I need to blame the dog for my indiscretions.