In recent weeks, I have learned a lot about myself- more more than I ever wanted to. I knew I had no shame, that’s absolutely nothing new- i’ll do and say a hell of a lot of disgusting things for a giggle-but detailing the contents of my colon, puking, pissing myself and mentioning an unfortunate hair removal incident on facebook- i’ve really gone to all new heights (or lows, however you choose to see it).
It is my full belief that sometimes, if you don’t talk about the horrible things somewhere, you will quite literally go insane, or explode, or go insane and then explode- and that is what I felt like was literally and figuratively happening to me with the poop (or lack thereof more like).
Likely to many peoples horrification, I blogged about it- and you would not believe the response. I think half the internet was trying to find ways to force shit out of me, including but not limited to spraying hot water up my hole, and going all fucking Whitney Houstin and shoving my hand up there and pulling the shit out.
Shit was getting real, and after 2 doses of miralax and a giant cup of coffee without any action below the belt, I was beginning to think so too. Anything sounded better than having to be bent over a table by a hot doctor and having nurses force my cheeks apart while Hot Doc took the jaws of life and shoved them up my butt.
As I sat on the couch, contemplating the future of my rectum and all further shits after what I assumed would either kill me or rip me in half- as Dave Chapelle would say: “I felt the rumblin'”
I thought: YES! THIS IS IT! WHAT I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR! IT’S GONNA HAPPEN!
My ass was finally going to give birth, and I could not have been any happier than if I won the damn lottery. No jaws of life in my ass! No having to drink castor oil and ending up with sting ring and bleeding anal fissures! No having to choke down prune juice just to explode from the other end!
But what followed was not at all what I expected.
Instead of having to run to the bathroom and strap myself down with a seatbelt to keep from flying off, I farted. And not just one fart, but a series of long, silent farts.
A series of long silent farts that lasted well over 30 minutes, and with each fart, my gigantic pregnant looking stomach decreased in size; all while sitting next to my husband, WHO I DO NOT FART IN FRONT OF!
Pooping is one thing. I don’t know why pooping is one thing and farting is different, perhaps because of the noise associated and the fact that farts enjoy to sneak out before you can run to a bathroom, slam the door, and make all kinds of racket so no one can hear your ass throw up- I just DON’T fart in front of him! Some things MUST REMAIN A MYSTERY! I had hoped the sound and stench of my very own farts would be the one thing he never knew about me.
The entire time this is going on, he’s sitting beside me, completely unaware. My face is burning from humiliation, just waiting for the moment I see his face sour and he turns to look at me and asks the dreaded question:
“DID YOU FART?”
and I have to hang my head and say yes, because who the fuck else could I blame it on at that point?
Now, the only reason I am arguing for my woman card not to be revoked is because in the hour long toot-fest, there was no stink. NO I’M NOT LYING! I wish there would have been.. it would have made the humiliation and lowering of my very few morals worth it.
Hold the alarms and stop the presses y’all- because I think the whole poop fiasco may have been JUST FART BUBBLES. A gigantic uncomfortable baby sized fart bubble.
While I am no longer concerned about stretching out my butthole with a cannonball sized poop, I do not think farting for an hour straight bodes well for my self-esteem.
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