gas houses

Last night, after dropping off my library books and buying Diet Dr Pepper and bread, I stopped at Borders. (I know, you're astounded by this, but OMFG, y'all, it's TOTES my favorite store!) I grabbed several magazines---including Everyday with Rachael Ray, which I hid at the bottom of the stack as though concealing the basest pornography---and retreated to a chair at the back of the store.

As I was reading, an elderly man flopped down heavily in the chair next to me. This annoyed me, because there were several other chairs he could have taken instead, but there was nothing I could do about it, so I continued reading.

About ten minutes later, he stood up and said in a loud, singsongy voice, "Toot-toot!" I glanced up nervously, and he walked past me and emitted a fart that lasted, I shit you not, at least ten seconds. It sounded like a cross between air escaping from a wet balloon and a growling puppy. I can't tell you if it stank or not, because I grabbed my stack of magazines and fled in the opposite direction.

I guess I can't really throw any stones at the gaseous grayhair, though, considering what happened on Sunday night.

G and I were sitting on the couch relaxing. Apparently, I was a bit too relaxed, because before I could stop it, I let fly with a rumbler. I screamed in horror and buried my face in the arm of the couch as G laughed.

Well, we've been going out for 2 1/2 years now; I guess the fart barrier had to be broken sometime. I just didn’t think I’d break the sound barrier along with it!