You guessed it: another fart story.
We were shopping at a big home improvement store last weekend when The Mama *ahem* passed gas. Alice chose this exact moment to engage me in conversation in the precise location in which the crime—um, I mean, the bodily function—occurred. I firmly believe that being flatulent is punishment enough; there is no way The Mama should have to stand around and inhale the wretched air. So I did what any parent would do: I leaned down and whispered into Alice’s ear, “Hey, I just passed gas, and it’s pretty stinky. We should walk that way and catch up with your dad.”
Sometimes candor is my greatest downfall.
Alice sprinted down the aisle and caught up with her father juuuust after she passed the couple walking the opposite direction (whew!) and said, “Hey Dad! There’s stinky gas back there! We better run!”
I didn’t raise no fool.
Postscript: I just used “fart” as a tag on this post. Seriously. This might be a new low.