When I was a young lad, my father liked to load up my family in the station wagon and go for a drive.  The purpose of these road trips varied; house hunting, picnics, and when Grandma went with us, she brought her easel and would paint.  Inevitably, while we were on the road, the natural release of flatulence would come up.  When my dad was the culprit, he’d always crack the same joke, “I think the wires are burning.”  Mom would giggle and say, “Excuse me.”  My father would get furious that she would dare infringe upon his sacred air and would pull over the car and yell to get out!  I think one of the reasons I have such a nice ass is because during these trips I squeezed by butt cheeks so hard if I had charcoal up my ass it would be a diamond by the time we got home.  Unfortunately, one or two of my silencers would ultimately drift out.  Again, my dad would pull the car over and demand to know who had done it.  My farts have a smell unlike any other and it seemed to hit my dad particularly hard.  He’d yell, “Your stink is so bad you’ll never get married!”  He made me think.  I better make a concerted effort to hold to work on my game or else I faced a life of bachelorhood mired in my own stank.

During high school I never had a girlfriend.  His words seemed to have come true.  It’s not like I farted them away, I was just an awkward kid who liked to play sports and say goofy things.  Plus, the girl I had a crush on dated an older boy.  I wasn’t getting anywhere.  I was popular because I was a jock and pretty funny.  Skills that I still have today, so I figured I better embellish them and try to find my true love somewhere else.

In college, I continued to hang on to the dream of becoming a professional athlete albeit a stinky one.  I just seemed to know it was going to happen.  My roommate introduced me to Bonnie after football practice.  She had just come from swim team practice.  Who knew that just 5 months later we would meet up again at my birthday party and I would joke my way into her heart.

I don’t much remember exactly how things went down, but I do remember at the party she wore black and I told her black was my favorite color.  I said some other witty things that night and we seemed to hit it off quite well.  It was Saturday night and I asked if I could take her out.  She said she couldn’t because she was dating another boy who lived out of town.  I asked her what was she doing the next day and she said she was going to Mass.  I was undeterred about the boyfriend thing.  I told her I was here and I wanted to spend time with her.  I would meet her at church.

We arrived at St. Joseph’s at different times, so I had to sit alone.  I had never been to a Catholic service before.  I didn’t pay particular attention to what was being said and kept my eyes on the lovely brunette I hoped to date one day.  I followed the rituals and when it came time for communion I joined in and thanked the priest for the cookie.  It was tasteless but I was there to impress not eat.

The effort seemed to work and rather than bore you with all of the details that led up to nearly 27 wonderful years of marriage the more important thing is when I did ultimately release that first air poo from me arse, it didn’t drive her away.  She nearly fainted but the thing I feared the most didn’t materialize.  She stayed.  For better or for worse with the worse definitely being those times when I had gas.  In some respects, it’s a good thing that I am an athlete, that I am funny, or else what my dad has said all those years ago might have actually come true.