And though I tried with all my might to stop it, I farted right in his mouth.
A big, thundering, horsey-sounding toot right down his esophagus.
From his perspective I bet my ruffled skirt billowed in the wind. I jumped up so fast I bucked him to the floor.
"I am so sorry!" I shrieked.
Stunned from the fall, he didn't speak right away. I hoped he'd gotten brain damage so he wouldn't remember what just happened. He looked slowly around the room, etching what just occurred firmly into his mind and said slowly, "That's OK, my dog does that all the time."
My eyes locked with Bella's piercing blue eyes. She just stared at me in disgust. I knew he was lying. No dog with such a glossy coat and regal posture would fart as I had just farted.
"I ate some bad pineapple. I was really backed up. I hope it didn't smell too bad. Usually ice cream is what really gets me," I blathered on and on.
At least one orifice was no longer constipated.
He humored me for about five more minutes and then said he had an early day. Yeah, I bet, an early, gloriously fart-free day. He walked me to the door, gave me a tepid one-armed hug and quickly shut the door.
Finding respite in my car, I hit the gas pedal and with it came a booming fart. I looked down at my overactive bathing suit area. C**k blocked yet again by my own digestive wasteland. What To Eat After A Bad Date
Philip was. He never called me again. I ran into him at a bar a few weeks later but he avoided me. And it looked like he was clearly standing downwind. Wise move. To this day I wonder how he tells the story.
I bet he doesn't blame it on the dog.