Dear Readers: if you don't like funny stories about farting please skip this post. Mom that might mean you.
Preface: for dinner I made cajun chicken pasta (yum).
Fred: Mmmm I think I want seconds
Me: I know it's really good. I can't decide if I want more.
Fred: No. You can't.
Me: what? Why?
Fred: because pasta gives you gas so no.
Me: Whatever. Everything gives you gas and name one time pasta gave me gas
Fred: Our honeymoon you had pasta and had bad gas and bad poos. And every other time.
Me: lies. I got sick on our honeymoon because of the wine that my meal was cooked in.
One hour later
We're watching tv. All clean oxygen is removed from our home.
Fart from the husband
Me: oh my gosh.
Fred looking at his butt: what? What happened?
Fart less than 3 seconds later, measuring a 5 on the ricter scale.
Me: seriously? (start gagging) oh. My. Gosh.
This goes on for 30 minutes straight
Me: you're sleeping out here tonight.
Fred: Why?? I didn't mean to.
Me: You did too.
Me: Stop farting then.
Fred: I can't--but they don't stink
Fred: I'm sorry…the next one won't stink.
He gets up and opens a window and puts the fan in front of it. He sits closest to the window on our air mattress (that we haven't put away from Matt & Abbey's visit) I sit next to him.
Fart which is amplified by the fan
Me: gagging, dry heaving, screaming ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME! How did you think that was a good idea? Oh. I'm. going. To. Die.
Fred: Do you hate me?
Me: because you're trying to kill me.
Fred: no no I'm not.
Me: something is dead up your butt.
Fred: but it's not my fault. You fed me.
He slept in the living room.