I heard a fascinating news story today, which I am passing on without regard to its accuracy. I *think* I have the details correct, but then I have been known to innocently pass on stories without a trace of truth to them. Anyway, it seems as though farting is in the news today. Which is a coincidence because I had it on my list of topics to address in this diary. I figured since I broached the subject of vomit yesterday and sweating the day before, farting is an apt follow-up.

What I think I heard today was that the 2 women who contracted the "flesh eating virus" while in the hospital may have been infected by an employee who passed the virus by......farting. Ok, they didn't actually SAY that. Here is the quote from a news site:

Hospital officials said the bacteria unknowingly was carried in the employee's gastrointestinal tract. The employee, who hospital officials declined to identify, showed no signs of illness ... Although investigators don't know precisely how the bacteria was spread, they believe it was airborne.

In other words, he FARTED! Gives new meaning to SBD, doesn't it?

I was once a champion farter. I think I peaked during my marriage to jackass. He thought he was the best at everything, and I proved him wrong on each and every count. He excelled at nothing (ok, except beer drinking and self pity. And being a miserable bastard. Ok, he did excel at a few things). AMENDMENT: He excelled at nothing about which I cared to challenge. That would include farting.

Now we only knew each other 4 months before we were married (I am no longer accepting any comments on that mistake, thank you I have heard them all). So of course, there was the obligatory polite stage of holding in all gas regardless of the painful result. That didn't last too long if I recall correctly.

He thought it was quite funny to fart in bed. He thought he was the best. And he gloated one time too many. I remember how I turned my back to him, pushed my butt right up against his lap as we spooned closely. I could feel it building in me. I was tired, and I really didn't relish the idea of getting out of bed to scurry into the bathroom and let it out quietly. So....I did a few anal flexes...repositioned myself for maximum effect....and blew him clear across the room.

I believe his reaction, once he regained consciousness, was "JESUS CHRIST!"

It didn't take too many lost challenges for him to admit he had met his match. Every so often he foolishly dared me by tooting his wimpy fanfare only to be blown into the next county by my reply. One time Finchie ran down two flights of stairs because the blast had been so loud he thought surely someone had been injured. Once I assured him that the jackass was merely temporarily unconscious and would come to shortly, he went back to bed. I was the best. Indeed there were times when I scared and/or offended myself.

Times change. I decided that perhaps it would be best if the MOTH didn't experience that side of me. Perhaps it was not best to share everything. Oh sure, it has cost me some comfort. And it has actually even cost me sleep. There are nights when, after consuming a vat of TUMS, I am afraid to fall asleep, sure that the sphincter will relax and my secret will be "out." And yes, I have been tempted to show him what I've got. But...well...between you and me, although he's too polite to say anything about it to me, I think he knows. But we pretend, we keep up the illusion that I am gasless in Chicago. I think it's better that way, just not as fun.

And no one gets hurt.

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