First, some background. In addition to being a completely Shameless Shitter, nothing makes me laugh harder than a good ass blast. It doesn't matter if I am the musician behind the ripping solo or if it is from someone else -- I usually laugh uncontrollably. My wife, on the other hand, is less than enthused by the art of the fart, and often shakes her head in disgust or shame or pity at me as the broad smile creeps across my face. First rule of comedy, woman: fart = funny. Plain and simple.

Every morning my dear wife rolls over and whispers good morning to me and I promptly answer her with a big fart and a chuckle. This fateful morning went a little different. I remember being woken up around 5:30 AM by a blast that seemed to come from deep within my soul. It made it seem several degrees hotter under the covers. A half-second later, the smell hit -- and it was deadly. Smelled like a dumpster in August.

I smiled. A half-second after that, wifey groaned and began fanning the blankets furiously. I believe she asked if I shit myself. I, of course, played dead. I got a glimpse of the cat, and he looked annoyed at being disturbed from his slumber on my wife's feet. Blissful and still chuckling, I drifted off again.

Thirty minutes later I let loose another greaser, louder than the first. The same half-second, and the smell hit. It was pungent and sticky and seemed to have staying power. Smelled like that same dumpster in August, but this time with a decomposing body in it.

Again, I smiled. Another half-second and my wife groaned again and started fanning the blankets. This angered the cat, who sprang from her feet like, well, like an angry cat, and attacked my half-asleep wife, who was still reeling from the one-two punch I just laid on her. He pounced on her head and reared back to strike again.

Sensing the danger and weighing her options, wifey pulled the covers over her head to protect herself from the cat. She immediately started gagging and kicking at me. I, of course, was incapacitated with laughter and thus unable to help her -- she had Dutch ovened herself!

The stream of curse words coming out of her mouth would make Dice blush. Eventually the cat calmed down and left the room. My wife emerged from under the covers, looking haggard and pissed off, hair a mess, face red, panting. It took me more than thirty minutes to stop laughing at the fact that she willfully dove into a putrid cloud of last night's festering Chinese food to avoid the cat attack. Needless the say, she was not the least bit pleased with me that morning.