Wha . . . ? I heard something. Was the furnace pump grinding its gears again? Whoa. No. There it was again. No wonder it woke me up. And again. Gaseous exhalations from under the down comforter next to me. He sits up. It woke him too. Off he goes to the bathroom.
I call him the "Little Willows One-Man Mobile Self-Propelled Dirigible Gasbag" after an early blimp from 1907. There have been times when I thought I'd find him sailing about the upper corners of the airspace above the bed. How have the seats of his pants withstood the numerous onslaughts? It's a mystery that should remain unsolved.
Positives to this situation? Can there be any? Yes, there can.
My own pooting pattern is as the song of the nightingale versus the foghorn of his. And then there's the daily potential for comedy. He sits at the computer amending his class plans and I ask him if he minds going out to my mom and dad's for dinner on Sunday. He lifts up one buttock and--brraapp!--lets one rip.
"I'll take that as a no," I say, and his laugh rings out, louder, if that can be imagined, than the hot breath out the other end. His laughter loosens the sphincter again and, whoa, both at once.
We are helpless in the clutches of this hysteria, and we do not want to be delivered from it.
No comments:
Post a Comment