I need to stay away from Chinese food.
The one “problem”
with having a healthy diet is that when you eat crap, bad things happen. A little while ago I was cajoled by my co-workers
to skip my lunchtime workout and go with them to the Chinese food buffet down the road. They promised me that the place had
some of the best chow in the city and I should stop being so damn healthy and just have a righteous pig out for a change.
I’d been good lately, so I thought, what the hell?
It was a mistake.
I’m not talking
about skipping a chance to burn calories in favour of ingesting way too many calories kind of mistake – everyone needs
to do that now and then to keep the metabolism guessing and not go insane – but it had been a couple of years since
I’d has such a colossal grease-fest, and my digestive system didn’t know what to do with it, so it just decided
to convert it all to methane.
It started to kick in on my evening run. I dropped my son off at his karate class and had an hour
to kill so I did my usual ten kilometers. After about ten minutes the farting began and it felt like someone had strapped
a leaf blower to my ass. It was so intense I almost thought I was getting a little jet propulsion boosting effect from it.
Even though I was
outside and literally running away from the gas, I could still smell it. Seriously, it was baaaaddddd.
You know that green puke stuff from The Exorcist? The vile, hell-spawned
projectile vomit? Well, imagine Linda Blair cut one instead; that’s what I had.
Good thing I wasn’t on a treadmill
in a crowded gym; people would have been fleeing for their lives. By the end of my run it seemed like I had blasted out several
cubic feet of toxic fumes, but it was still coming.
This is the part where you realize why I will never, ever win a Father-of-the-Year award.
My son came out
of his class and we got into the car. I should note that he is a willing player in what is known as “The Fart Game”
(and don’t pretend like you’ve never played it). While at home he will feel one brewing, run up to where I am
sitting and let her rip, then run away giggling. All is fair in love, war, and the fart game.
I locked the car windows so he couldn’t
open them then expelled a noxious stench so diabolical that even Satan himself would have gagged.
“Ahg! Gah! Daddy! Ah! It smells so
bad!” Fumble, fumble. “Daddy! Open the window! Seriously, I’m
gonna puke!”
“No way, kiddo! Who is the master of the fart game now?”
“Daddy!” [insert realistic gagging
noises here].
I fumbled for the lock release on the power windows while changing lanes and radio stations at the same time,
but I was too late. The gags were followed by a massive, wet, retching sound as my son blew his groceries all over the inside
of the car.
Puke and fart smell, together at last.
Needless to say, the rest of the drive home was completed with all four windows open.
My son was not impressed. My wife was not impressed. I was kind of impressed that one of my farts could make someone puke,
but annoyed that the Flames were playing and I had to spend my evening cleaning little boy vomit out my car.
I’ll know
better for next time and open the window. Better yet, I’ll just go to the gym and avoid the Chinese food buffet in the
first place.
