Am I a Grandpa or what?
by Jesse Loren
My grandfather died while making fried eggs for my granny. He was retired from the army and Lockheed. She was showering for work. My grandfather was patient, short on words, long on listening. This trait alone makes us seem almost unrelated. It’s not his mouth that I have in common, it’s the other end.
I am beginning to fart like my 80-year-old grandfather.
At first, I thought it was due to beer. If I drink beer, any amount. One sip or 10, I turn into an Atomic Fart machine. Turn the machine to any setting, “Slipped out Secretary” or “Grown man fart” and I can do it. I do not need a farting post or anyone to pull my finger; I just need a little beer or milk.
I’m not sure if the gas-bag ass sounds are drowned out by our bedroom sound machine, or if my snoring could mask the sound, but these are the things I worry about at night. Seriously, either my husband is the most polite man ever born, or he could sleep through anything.
Joe the dog, not so much. My terrier mix has the temperament and size of a Jack Russell but the hairlessness of a Chinese Crested. He looks like “Dobe” the house elf, from Harry Potter or the dog from the Grinch. It’s easy to make fun of the dog because he looks so permanently silly. He is funny, curious, and opinionated.
After my husband left for work, I knew I was alone in the house with nare a reason to care what my boomer butt could do. 1812 Overture, bring it. Missing a contra bassoon for your orchestra? I got it.
But sound and smell are different. Who else better to try this on than the D-O-G.
Joe sleeps under the covers every night. He is our marital chastity dog. If my husband so much as kisses me goodnight, the dog actually growls and says, “NO,No,NO.” There are never more than three No’s at a time. Joe paws at the covers at night and dives under, finding a suitable place between our chests, but as the night progresses, he moves downward.
Sometimes he becomes Joe the foot warmer, sometimes Joe the seat warmer. It was a warm September seat-warmer morning that brought out the Dutch in me.
I decided to Dutch oven the dog. I could tell by the awful bloat of my stomach that something awful had crawled up, died, and filled me with the fumes of the dead. I had two beers and mom’s homemade mac and cheese casserole before bed. I pulled the covers up to my chest and giggled. Joe’s head was right by my boomer.
Is it wrong to Dutch Oven the dog?
I actually texted this to my husband because I knew it would crack him up at work. I didn’t wait for his reply. I flexed my stomach muscles pulled my knees up and let her rip!
Boom, raspberry, raspberry, putt, putt.
It might have been the longest fart known to man. Joe’s head raised with the alacrity of a watch dog then he army-crawled away from me and stuck his head out from the covers. Even dogs have a line that shouldn’t be crossed.