shubab
in
who_farted
The family that farts together
We have only one rule in our family about farting: Don't do it in the car. It's a matter of safety. Studies have shown that farts rank somewhere between cell phones and blowjobs in their tendency to distract the driver. For this reason, when we are on long road trips, our guts are like compressed air cannons by the time we reach our motel. My husband is always the one to go sign us in because he is the one with the most control and is therefore the least likely to start a fire if someone is smoking in the motel office.
My husband is also the least tolerant about farting, and he always tells us not to fart in the motel room, but we are only human. My son is usually the first to go, with the loud bang that is characteristic of his efforts. My daughter replies with, "Oh, yeah? Well, then..." and emits one of her remarkable gurglers. Then I say, "It looks like I need to freshen the air in here," and I produce one of my well-modulated multisyllabic egg reruns. I have pretty good anal embouchure, and once I managed to "hum" a couple of bars of a popular Christmas melody with one prolonged fart. But it is my husband's humble silent-but-deadlies that always send us running to open the door and windows in the dead of winter, for what he produces are truly weapons of ass destruction.
On one memorable occasion I produced a motel-room fart that set up seismic waves in the bedsprings and smelled, to me, like buttered toast. My family's descriptions were less charitable. Now, usually a fart dissipates fairly rapidly, but this one remained in a coherent mass and went into orbit around the interior of the room, where it visited each family member in turns throughout the evening. My husband refers to it as my "comet fart," and we all remember it more or less fondly.
My husband is also the least tolerant about farting, and he always tells us not to fart in the motel room, but we are only human. My son is usually the first to go, with the loud bang that is characteristic of his efforts. My daughter replies with, "Oh, yeah? Well, then..." and emits one of her remarkable gurglers. Then I say, "It looks like I need to freshen the air in here," and I produce one of my well-modulated multisyllabic egg reruns. I have pretty good anal embouchure, and once I managed to "hum" a couple of bars of a popular Christmas melody with one prolonged fart. But it is my husband's humble silent-but-deadlies that always send us running to open the door and windows in the dead of winter, for what he produces are truly weapons of ass destruction.
On one memorable occasion I produced a motel-room fart that set up seismic waves in the bedsprings and smelled, to me, like buttered toast. My family's descriptions were less charitable. Now, usually a fart dissipates fairly rapidly, but this one remained in a coherent mass and went into orbit around the interior of the room, where it visited each family member in turns throughout the evening. My husband refers to it as my "comet fart," and we all remember it more or less fondly.