Before people started turning up raped and beheaded, your Papa and I used to drive down to Baja, Mexico with friends to surf and camp. We’d set up shop right on a cliff that looks directly out to the ocean. A woman would come by daily selling Tamales and a DJ would play music at a nearby hotel in the night. I farted, for the first time, in front of your Papa on our first trip to Baja and managed to convince him it was actually the smell of his own fart he was inhaling.
We were in the tent when your Papa decided it would be funny to go fart in his buddy’s tent. I knew then I could let my own fart out and blame it on your Papa crop-dusting it back into our tent. It was one of those historical farts that we talked about for years afterward. It was that bad. Your dad couldn’t believe the smell of his own fart could gross him out as much as it did. I knew at this time I wanted to marry this man. Anyway, years later I confessed that it was indeed my own making. He agreed to keep it a secret and we shook on it with the agreement that I could secretly add dog shit to his food if he ever told another living soul. And here I am, spilling my own dirty laundry.
One day, when you’re choosing a wife, make sure you chose one who farts in front of you. Don’t ask why, just trust me on this one.
P.S. Van? Can you hear me? How ’bout coming out one of these days…