Trust is an important part of marriage. When you can be counted upon to be totally and shamelessly honest about something like bodily functions, or MALfunctions as the case may be, you can present a pretty believable case in your defense of “dealt it vs. didn’t deal it”.

When our son was younger and tore ass, if we weren’t deafened by it, he would watch in delighted anticipation for the stank wave to hit us, and then hysterically jump to take credit for his chemical warfare. He’s gotten older now, and will try to pull some plausible deniability, saying he doesn’t know if he farted, or pull an outright, full-scale cover up and try to frame me or the dog or broken sewer line in the neighborhood.

He’ll still occasionally launch a fart attack on one of us when he’s in one of his slappy, silly moods. Because, c’mon, KIDS. Here’s a shot of him “aiming his shorts” at me, so his fart would find its mark more accurately.

I, on the other hand, have grown old enough or married enough that I don’t even bother with being discrete or embarrassed or apologetic about breaking or thoroughly annihilating wind. Sure, when we were first together, I’d be mortified if she heard me honk the old butt horn, let alone smelled it. But when you’ve seen each other sick as death or struggled through soul-testing trials, a waft of smelly swamp gas just doesn’t seem that big a deal.

She doesn’t seem to appreciate it, though, when I tell her she should be glad I don’t aim and point-blank blast her like our son does.

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