At the risk of becoming thematically linked to all things ass-related, as I did in three parts, starting here, continuing here, finishing here. I’m going to write about one more ass-related thing here. Once more into the breach.
When I first hooked up with the Wife…back when she was still classified as the Girlfriend, she had this odd quirk. Now, I’ve heard a lot of guys weigh in on this and there’s quite a few that this wouldn’t have bothered, and I’m not saying it bothered me, I just found it a little…weird.
Initially, it was the fact that she locked the bathroom door whenever she went in to do her business. Yeah, okay, that’s fine. I’m not a big fan of sharing my bodily functions with others… and yeah, that includes public restrooms.
But there was a point where the the Girlfriend became the Fiance, and then, the Wife.
And through all of that, not once had she ever farted in front of me. Not. Once.
In fact, this lasted a long time. Like, years.
There came a night when we were both reading in bed. The Wife got up to get herself a drink. Now, at this point, I was working a lot of evenings, so she was used to me not being around. And maybe it was partly because of that, and maybe it was partly due to me quietly reading. Whatever the reason, as I lay there, I heard an absolutely unmistakeable sound rip out of the kitchen. She’d finally broken through the barrier. She’d finally shredded the sound barrier. In a big way.
Her ass had betrayed her for the first time.
Though I said nothing, in my mind, Gotcha! swirled round and round.
What made it even funnier was that, for someone that was going for a quick drink of water, she didn’t come back to the bedroom for a solid twenty minutes. I pictured her, standing in the kitchen, silently shaking with nervous giggles, panicking and desperately trying to come up with anything else that could be mistaken for a fart noise.
Eventually, she did come back to the room. I pretended nothing happened, didn’t even look up from my book when she entered the room. But the Wife, man! What a poker face she had! She walked in, stopped beside me, and in a high-pitched I’m-trying-desperately-to-act-normal-but-I’m-in-total-fart-panic-mode voice, squeaked, “WHAT? WHAT?” As though I’d said something.
I said nothing.
The next day, though, I got my revenge. I worked in the Oshawa Centre mall back then, selling cameras and other photography equipment. On my break, I went to the greeting card store and bought a really large card that originally said something like, “Congratulations on your new job!” I then crossed out “job” and wrote “fart” in. Then I changed the verse inside so it spoke more eloquently to her gassy emanations. I got the eight or so employees in the store to sign it, amid much laughter. Then my boss, with a mad twinkle in his eye, encouraged me to take some time out of my busy workday and go visit as many of the stores in the mall that I could, and collect as many signatures as I could.
I’m guessing there was likely over a hundred signatures on that card by the time I was done with it. Needless to say, when I presented her with the card, I thought she was going to kick my ass.
Funny enough, she didn’t seem to want to go to the mall much after that…
But the problem with that entire fracturing of the flatulence border meant that all bets were off. From then on, she lived by the phrase “wherever you may be let your wind blow free.”
Which, again, is no big deal. Yes, there’s been some times where I think I was lucky to make it out of the car or room alive, nose hairs singed and eyes watering, but overall, what the hell, I did it, why can’t she, right? So I didn’t discourage it. Hell, I’ll admit it…in our house, it was never discouraged.
Gotta say, even with our best friends, it’s not discouraged. I remember a New Year’s Eve when one of our friends was pretty much experiencing explosive decompression out of her ass most of the night and her husband, with evident pride in his voice, just kept saying, “Yep! That’s my girl!”
Now, this all happened over eighteen years ago. So you might say the Wife’s become quite comfortable with dropping a rose now. Sometimes, a little too comfortable.
A few years back, we drove down to Florida. At one point, needing food and bathrooms, we stopped at a Wendy’s at the side of the highway. I can’t remember the particular city or state we were in, but I’m going to apologize to all Americans for what happened next. I fear it may have been the lynchpin in the downfall of the U.S. economy and possibly the reason why George W. was re-elected for a second term in office.
I got out of the car, the kids piled out and, as usual, I stood waiting for the Wife to finally get her shoes on, grab her purse and do the 341 other things she feels are necessary prior to exiting a vehicle. Finally, she got out and I locked the car and turned toward the restaurant. And it was then, in broad daylight, mid-afternoon, in a very public parking lot, that she actually stopped, raised a leg slightly and flamboyantly heaved a load of gas that partially melted the tarmac. The sound was that of stressed jet.
And it was only when she completed this unholy act that she realized exactly where the hell she was. As the kids and I pretty much fell down onto the softened pavement, she yelped, “OH MY GOD!” and ran for the restaurant. She’d completely zoned out to where she was.
And seizing that split second of inattention, her ass had betrayed her a second time.
Then, just a couple of weeks ago, we were up at Carleton University with the Girl. We’d been up for the entire weekend and were stopping at the bookstore prior to heading back home. It was unbelievably cold and maybe that, in part, contributed to the tragedy that occurred.
We went into the bookstore, walked around, got the stuff we were looking for, paid for it, and headed back out. The Wife and I split off and headed to our respective sides of the car, where I opened my door. Then I heard the most incredible sound.
It can only be described as a cross between a horrendous ripping noise, and the bleating of a Canada Goose being beaten to within an inch of its life.
Then the Wife cranked open her side, jumped in and, ducking as low as she could, yelled, “Get in! DRIVE! JUST DRIVE!”
Blame it on forgetfulness, blame it on the switch from warmth to insane cold sending her butt into paryoxic spasms. Blame it on anything you want, she had been betrayed yet again by the diabolical beast that is her sphincter.
While I’ve never bought into the gloom and doom end of the world scenarios, as I write this, I fear those damn Mayans may have foreseen the power of the Wife’s butt trumpet and the world’s inability to resist it past Dec 21.
The lesson here? Be careful what you encourage.