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 Smell WorldPosted 04.18.2005 by El Poopadore (46)
I just thought I'd share with the masses the one most humiliating moments in my husband's life.
Last summer, after a very small and eventless ceremony, my new husband and I were treated to an all-expenses-paid honeymoon to a destination of our choosing. We contemplated the tropics, Las Vegas, and a cruise, but we finally decided on a week's stay in Walt Disney World. We are both Disney fanatics, so it was mutually anticipated trip. I should have known this would be a rather memorable vacation -- it would be the first time we'd ever been on a vacation together, and for me, the first trip without my family along. We had each and every day of the week planned out -- itineraries were printed out and in a folder. I had packed everything except the dog, determined to be prepared for anything... and this would later prove to be prophetic. After kenneling the mutt and waving good-bye to the parents, we made our way to Orlando. If you've ever had the experience of Orlando in July, then you are well aware that it is a damnable hellhole of 100% humidity and 103-degree temperatures. Being prepared, as I thought I was, I had plenty of water and sunscreen. We slathered ourselves in SPF 20, hopped in the car we rented at the airport, and made our way to the first of the four parks we would visit on our trip: Disney's Animal Kingdom. What I thought would be a fun romp at a world-class animal-themed amusement park quickly revealed itself to be a hot, sticky, over-hyped zoo of half-sunbaked lions, kill-me-before-the-damned-heat-does giraffes, and a complete lack of shade. You would think that any breeze, even a hot one, would be welcomed to help cool you off -- and I thought the same, until I learned to avoid these aerial onslaughts of hot animal fart. With only a handful of attractions -- only ONE of which was air-conditioned -- I calmly asked if we could go to another park. With little objection, my husband agreed. First things first, however. Lunch time. I try to avoid unidentifiable meats at zoos and fish sticks at aquariums, so I had a small salad and two fruit cups. My husband treated himself to a heap of chili-cheese nachos, a BBQ pulled pork sandwich, an order of chili-cheese fries, and a bottle and a half of boiling hot Gatorade from the backpack to wash it all down. I had a nagging feeling that this would come back to haunt him, and I even warned him; but he gobbled it all up quickly and we made our way back to the car. The ride to the other park was a quick one -- nothing notable that I can remember. And the few hours in the park weren't too lively, either. The line to get on the spinning teacups, however, I'd like to forget. My husband's farts are not the little poot-poot farts -- they're more like a combination of someone ripping industrial Velcro apart and a small rumbling earthquake being blown though a megaphone. And he's not shy about rippin' 'em, either. The entire wait was full of pull-my-fingers and mothers out of earshot checking their babies' diapers for the culprit. His ass truly smelled worse then the damn Animal Kingdom dung pit at high noon. By the time we finally got into a teacup, I was mortified more than I ever thought possible. While we sat and waited for the other cups to load, I asked politely if he'd go on the flying Dumbos with me. He announced that he wasn't getting on "no damn Dumbo," and sealed the deal with a ripe, juicy, reverberating fart. The fart itself was a colon-ripping, ass-cheek-flapping o-ring blaster to rival the dinner table scene from Eddie Murphy's Nutty Professor; and much to my dismay, it was amplified by the acoustic properties of the fiberglass cup. Everyone heard it. Everyone. The guy in the control booth looked, as well as everyone on the other cups, the people in line, and even the two people in the Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum costumes. I was about to die. My husband looked at me and laughed, so there was no blaming it on another teacup. The worst part (up to this point, anyways) was that the ride was just about to begin. The faces of the riders as they passed through the shit cloud were enough to make someone crawl into a hole and die from sheer embarrassment. Even my husband was a bit embarrassed. Finally, the smell of week-old egg fart was gone, and the ride was over. I scurried over to another ride like a sewer rat along the side of a New York City skyscraper, trying with all my might to go unnoticed by everyone else. I scolded him but tried to keep my composure -- after all, it's the happiest place on Earth, right? Not wanting to fight in line, he apologized and said he'd hold it in as long as he could. We were waiting to get on the Small World ride, which didn't have a very long line. Unable to keep his promise, my husband snuck out a few less loud farts while we waited, which kept the Spanish-speaking brood behind us cursing him in their native tongue. We finally got into a boat, the Spanish-fluent people directly behind us, and off we went. We floated in the water like turds in a bowl, just as happy as could be -- and then he grabbed my hand. Hard. The look on his face was that of a woman in labor. I asked what was wrong and he said he was sorry in advance, that this fart would be the last one. I tore my hand away and he let 'er rip. It was a bubbling, slapping, wet-cement-falling-on-asphalt sound. It was long and muffled, but ultimately cruel. The people behind us started chattering again about the smell, and at this point my husband turned, pale-faced, in a muted attempt to hush them. This only confirmed their suspicions: the gringo had shit himself. He proceeded to tell me it was in his drawers and felt like ten pounds of semi-solid shit were nestled deep in the crack of his ass. I asked what the hell I could do and he was adamant that, for one, I keep my voice down. Everyone on the boat was hysterical with laughter. He was panicking and I was so overwhelmed with "I told you not to eat all that bullshit" that I wasn't helping much. When we got to the docking area, he rose carefully like a geriatric with a hip replacement, revealing a foot-wide shit smudge on the plastic seat. The dump was more liquid than solid. He sheepishly asked the attendant to make sure that no one lets anyone change diapers on the ride again and demanded I walk six inches behind him so no one else would see the shitplosion dripping out his Hanes. I obliged, with hesitation, and we waddled out of the area like two shit-soaked ducks. I did notice that some splatter was leaving a little trail on the ground, and commenced in making Hansel and Gretel jokes that fell on unappreciative ears. We waddled straight out the gates and to the car -- a full monorail ride and a mile of parking lot away. Luckily we had a monorail compartment to ourselves. Once we got to the car, he freaked out at the thought of having no extra clothes. Being the ever-prepared woman that I am, I fished out a pair of swim trunks from the car. They were a little wet from the swimming pool at the hotel the night before, and they smelled like mildew, but it was better than the puddin' pants he had on. He dropped his shitty shorts and undies right in the parking lot. Then, without thinking, he went to put on the swimmies. I screamed for him to stop and at least wipe off. He agreed, and I handed him about three thousand of the free hand towelettes I'd swiped from every hot dog stand I'd seen in the previous three days. He kept asking if he was clean, which he wasn't, so I finally laid him down in the backseat on his back and wiped him down like a big baby boy with a shitty diaper. It was disgusting and creepy, but I felt better knowing he was clean. With his newly-wiped ass and balls, he put on the swim trunks; and as we walked back to the monorail to get back to the park, I realized that he hadn't tossed anything. I asked were he put the shitty shorts and undies while I was tossing the wipes in a garbage can. He proudly announced that he stuck them in the tail pipe of the car next to us. Why? I'll never truly understand. Either way, I bet the guys behind the security cameras had a field day with us. -- El Poopadore Post new comment
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