Touchdown in the Fart Zone
Ok, I have to tell a little story on Hubberkins. Don’t
worry, I already cleared it with him. In fact, he’s kinda proud that I’m
telling this story. (Haha – I said “fart” twice). It’s a story about farts.
Yah, seriously, he’s proud that his farts made the blog. What is it with guys
and their farts? I would never – let me repeat that – NEVER agree to let
someone blog about my... perfumes. I don’t even want people knowing that I do
that. In fact, stop it! Stop imagining that I perfume. Don’t even entertain the
idea. Guys, however, L-O-V-E to fart. They treat a good one likes it’s a great
bottle of wine: “Been working on that a long time,” or “Wow, that one’s ripe;
take a big sniff” or my favorite, “Whew, that’s a winner”. NO. No it’s not. A
fart is not a “winner”. When the smell of rotting cabbage exits your butt, no
one wins!
I am thoroughly convinced that farting is to boys as peeing
is to male dogs. Think about it: when you take a dog for a walk, he pees on
just about every new plant or fire-hydrant you pass. When you take a boy out of
your house, he farts in every store, restaurant, and car that you get in to. I
swear.
And don’t get me started on hotel farts; they are the worst! The first thing a guy does when
he get’s into a hotel room is rip a huge one. Holy Geez! Have you been storing that for days?!?! The power of a hotel fart is enough to
light your nostril hairs on fire and burn your eyes as if you’ve emptied a whole
can of hairspray into them. What died in there, man? Front desks
everywhere should pass out digestive enzymes, air fresheners, and nose plugs
during check in.
So, let’s get to the story. Hubberkins is really great at
farting in places other than our bedroom. Considerately, he walks into the
guest room or down the hall if he has to fart. I did not teach him this. He
took it upon himself after seeing me gag for air once when he let out a
Hiroshima Bomb. Anyway, the morning before the Superbowl, Hubberkins was
enjoying a snack at the kitchen island while I cut up some veggies. He then got
up, walked to the living room, and then sat back down at the island.
“What was that all about?” I inquired.
“Oh, I had to fart,” he responded.
“So, why’d you walk over there?”
“So it wouldn’t get on the food,” he said in a perfectly
nonchalant tone.
“Get on the food?” I questioned in a state of bewilderment. I wasn’t aware that farts were sticky.
“Yes, I didn’t want to get it on the food, and I didn’t want
it to bother you.”
“Honey,” I said trying to hold my laughs in, “I’m throwing a
flag on this one. We have a great-room. The kitchen and the living room are one
in the same. You took three steps away from the island. I could smell your fart
before you walked back over here. ”
“Oops, I guess I didn’t have enough yardage to keep the veggies
safe.”
“No babe, I don’t think you did.”
Hubberkins now goes long when he needs to make a pass.
Hopefully, next year’s Suberbowl veggies will get at least a 5 yard advantage. For
now, let’s hope that no one that attended our Suberbowl party reads this blog.
