Tuesday, May 20, 2008
I didn't used to be much of a vocal farter. Not when anyone was around. There are those girls out there in the world who just go for it, and hey, more power to you. I can rip a wicked belch like nobody's business (seriously, you wanna have a contest? Get me a diet coke.), but I've never been interested in having anyone listen to my ass speak.
But with Poster Boy, I'm over it. No reason to leave the room, or try to muffle the sound with a cough. I refuse. Because he's literally made me vomit from one of his gut busters before.
Literally. I'm not speaking figuratively here. Here was the sequence of events:
We were hung over in Dublin. Wake up, bleary, head screaming, we're pretty sure it's about 2 p.m. local time. All of our hostel roommies are out and about, the French guy's bed is made, they're probably all walking about on this crisp fall day on literary tours. He let one go, and I had a brief, probably 5 second pause before the smell hit me in the face. Suddenly, my already upset stomach just decided it had suffered enough abuse, and I sprinted to the tiny bathroom just in time to revisit my previous night's Irish Stew (and about 15 Guinness).
But still, even though he is known alternately as Poster Boy and That Guy With the Worst Gas On the Planet (yes, he does have other redeeming qualities), every time he hears -- not even smells, mind you, just hears -- the tiniest little "poof," he scrunches his nose and says, "Gross!"
Well, he did for awhile. Now he just glares at me. And I give him the finger.
Posted by Serial Monogamist at 9:32 AM