Parting Clouds

In Essays, The Daily Drool on November 22, 2009 at 10:12 pm

Okay, so I wrote the above title  and then chuckled to myself, because, well, I thought it looked like “Farting Clouds.”  Which is NOT what this post is intended to be about!

…But it would probably be funny …

So funny in fact, that I am now less interested in my original topic, which was basically a flowery “Hey, in case you noticed, I’ve been pretty damn morose lately and guess what?  I’m feeling BETTER!”   because, let’s face it, farts are funny.  (Except when you let one go and it gets you some unwanted attention – then it’s mortifying.  Because really, any attention gotten by such means, is unwanted.  I mean, I can’t imagine a scenario in which “Hey, let’s look at that person because they just let one rip” is a good thing.)

BUT, because I love you all so much, I’m going to go ahead and share one of my MOST EMBARASSING MOMENTS with you… Right here, Right now… (and yup, you guessed it) It’s concerning The Stink We Want To Ignore

(now THAT’S a great title!)

Once upon a time, in a land called “Years Ago” there was a little blonde girl of name Little Tiff.  Little Tiff was a sweet girl, and happily in love with a young man of much heart.  Nigh on 24, Little Tiff hadn’t yet reconciled her stomach’s limits with the desires of her palate, and so, craving some greasy goodness, she partook of the KFC her young Prince delivered to her doorstep.  Yes, he wooed her with fried chicken, and then he took her to the cinema where they shared a sweet slurpee and dove love-sick into the movie.  It wasn’t long, however, before Little Tiff began to feel the curious twinge of gastular regret, and the film (a romance) yawned nastily before her; an eternity of hell.

Because the stomach was angry.  It threw up red flag after red flag…

The chicken wanted to escape.

Her intestinal machinery was working overtime, exhaust building at an alarming pace, the alarms were ringing, ground shaking, all signs shrieking “ABANDON SHIP!”

And before Little Tiff could muster an excuse for escape, the factory blew the whistle.

Now… there are many types of farts, but the worst are those that give no warning and make no announcement of their arrival.  Like the worst of party guests, they show up uninvited, make out with the host, break your best china, and throw up in the flower pot.

And so it was that it was this very guest crashed their date.

The Prince turned to Little Tiff (After a whiff) with a “Was that YOU?!”  Eyes round with shock and awe.

Little Tiff squirmed, how could she lie?  The guilt (and the agony) was spread cross her cheeks with a glow not even the theatre’s dim light could hide.  She nodded with shame, convinced the Prince would insist she move a few seats down…

“The Chicken…”  she croaked.

He nodded and leaned in with a smile (sans-gas mask, the brave fellow) and he asked (with tender heart) if she was alright, did she want to go home?   And although she wanted to scream “YES! Yes, more than anything in the whole world, I want to go home!”  she looked around at their fellow movie watchers, watching their nostrils flare at the offense, and said “No.  If we get up, everyone will know it was me!”

And that man, that dear, dear, sweet man, leaned back with a chuckle and squeezed her little paw as he settled back in… settled back in for a rocky evening with stinky Lil’ Tiff – bound to her seat by shame and a ridiculous need to prove her own false-innocence…  Deciding, in her own self interest, to stay and make all share in her misery rather than be found out.

Little Tiff (masterful actress that she was) even joined her fellow theatre goers in looking around indignantly at Each. Little. Interruption.

And what of the Prince?  Well, he had surely done battle with one of her heart’s guards that night and won.  And as the years stretched on, they spoke often of that night, infusing it with the kind of sentimentality often reserved for cute stories about ice cream and butterflies.


Yes… definitely much more interesting that that which I was originally going to write.  And much more disgusting.

(If any of you thought me a sexy beast before this, you’ve most certainly been schooled.)

And as to the whole “Feeling better” thing?  I am.

The sun is finally shining through the shit.  Hmm… an apt post indeed   ;-p


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