The Dog Did It

Every year I try to be responsible. I don't want to keel over with a sudden heart attack, so I ration my Thanksgiving meal. More than the threat of heart attack, I don't want that super full feeling after dinner. So I plop down just one spoonful of each item onto my plate. No more than the size of a fifty cent piece. Little round pile of mashed potatoes, a dollop of cranberry sauce, same with the stuffing, and just a sliver of turkey. Not enough to keep a man alive if that was all he ate every day. After dinner I accept a sliver of pie. Really, so thinly sliced that you could slip it under the door. What I want to know is why, just five minutes into the Thanksgiving dinner, do I start feeling bloated? I know I didn't eat that much. At least I don't think I did. There must be some ingredient in the Thanksgiving menu that expands after it drops into your stomach. I excuse myself from the table and make my way to the living room. Fifteen minutes after dinner my eyelids feel like they have lead weights hanging from them. I sit on the sofa staring at some inconsequential football game while fighting off sleep. I lose the battle and wake up thirty minutes later with gas. Now I have bloat, gas, and I'm still sleepy. So I try to sneak some of the gas out while sitting there. Not a very nice thing to do, but I feel like a beached whale and I don't want to get up and leave the room.

"Oh god Alan. Did you fart? Oh my god..."

"No. Must have been Chandler."