Yum Dinger and I are now officially cohabitating and blissfully living in sin. He moved in a few weeks ago and I must admit that becoming a domestic goddess has been a little tougher than I had hoped it would be. As a mostly single person for the past three years, I have become accustomed to jammin out with my clam out any old time I feel like it. Not being able to walk around the apartment in my birthday suit singing Wanted Dead or Alive has taken some getting used to.

Though this is not the first time in our long history to play house together we are certainly being more adult about it on our second try. (When I say we, I really mean just me.) Surprisingly enough I am learning how to share rather quickly. However the whole principle of “keeping my hands, feet and all other objects to myself” still escapes me. It is safe to say that my reputation of not playing well with others is quickly recovering from a long history of failed attempts. My 1st grade teacher, Mrs. Forton would be prouder than the parent of a fat kid in a cake eating contest at my recent skill development.

Life as an adult has certainly taken me by surprise, but I must admit that where I am now is exactly where I am meant to be.

Yum Dinger and I recently took a long weekend and got the hell out of Texas. I cannot begin to describe just how badly we needed some serious mileage between us and the rejects that we surround ourselves with on a daily basis. We booked a cabin on Lake Hamilton, loaded up the car, and drove to Hot Springs, Arkansas where we learned that inbreeding is still alive and well in the south.

We spent most of our weekend out on the lake in whatever vessel we could get our hands on. We started small, we went with Jet Skis right out of the gate. Though every rental place that surrounded Lake Hamilton advertised that they rented these little death traps we found in fact that they did not. Apparently there is a sand bar issue on that particular lake…..I cannot be sure at this point seeing as how we only dealt with twelve year olds at every turn. We finally found some unsuspecting idiots to loan us their jet skis on Lake Ouachita. We played in the water for hours like two monkeys slinging feces at each other. I could not wipe the smile off of my face if I tried.

The next day we rented a pontoon boat from yet another twelve year old that worked at the boat dock. He was quite possibly borderline retarded. Even on his best day he was in a close race with the likes of Forrest Gump. After Dinger and I had signed away the rights of our first born and given a blood sample to satisfy the written rental agreement, we finally boarded the boat. We spent the next four hours in our own little love bubble. As far as we were concerned were the only two people on the lake. Even though we did not catch a single fish, it was the happiest I have been in years.

On our last day in inbred heaven we arrived at the Arlington Hotel for a much needed massage. After the hotels famous Sunday brunch I made my way down to the spa in quite the chipper mood. I was ready to get this party started. I was introduced to a rather large woman as my masseur. She was at least six foot tall and had seen better days. She was wearing a stained apron and a banana clip in her hair. Though she introduced herself as Melanie when she shook my hand, I decided that the name Larry was much more suited given her stature and complete lack on interest in her appearance. Larry and I became very close during our short time together. I have had my share of massages over the years but I have never had my entire butt rubbed by a complete stranger. This experience was all together new to me and though I felt at least a little violated at first, I quickly warmed up to her sausage like fingers.

Despite the numerous brother cousins that we came in contact with during our trip, we had an absolutely fabulous time. It doesn’t really matter where we go though, Dinger and I could have a first class time at Wal-Mart on a Saturday night. We go together like Tiger Woods and white girls. Whatever our depraved minds are made up of, his and mine are the same.

Last weekend I took a trip to the great state of Oklahoma to visit some friends of mine. It had been an especially trying work week and I was desperately looking forward to a weekend void of any responsibility. I packed up my SUV, dropped my pug off at grandma’s and began the five hour journey to see my favorite couple, Clit & Kickapoo.

I should have known when my navigation system did not even recognize their address that I was going to be in for a real treat. Once I crossed the Texas border into Oklahoma all bets were off and I found myself trapped in hillbilly hell. It is often said that Texans are the not brightest light on the tree but there should be a special place in Wikipedia reserved for the wing nuts I encountered that particular weekend.

Somewhere between trailer park towns and the numerous Native American tribal grounds I decided that I was going to brave the locals and stop at the next gas station to relieve myself. I happened to see a sign for Loves, so I threw on the turn signal and made my way over to the ever popular hangout for truck drivers. I walked inside and immediately rushed over to the bathroom in an effort to avoid any sexual harassment from some random toothless wonder. When I entered the ladies restroom another woman was coming out of one of the stalls at the same time. She was in her late seventies or maybe even early eighties. She was wearing a notably large t-shirt with a wolf scene on the front of it. She had a Marlboro red hanging out of her mouth and at first glance it looked like her hair had not seen a brush in quite some time. She grunted at me “Good Morning” as she passed me on the way to the sink. Mind you it was almost 5:00 in the evening. The entire trip was pretty much a clown show from that point on.

I finally arrived at Clit and Kickapoo’s somewhere around seven. I should have been there much earlier however my GPS has an obvious sense of humor. My route that day was peppered in towns with a population of less than four and two lane highways that one could easily play chicken on. I was elated to finally be out of my car. I began drinking almost immediately. After a few cocktails and catching up on what everyone had been up to we decided to head out to a local bar.

I cannot even begin to describe the band that was playing at the bar. The lead singer looked like he had just come from a Billy Ray Cyrus look alike contest and both guitarists were sporting a mullet. In the short time that we were there they busted out a cowbell, a tambourine, a saxophone, and maracas. When the waitress finally approached our table I ordered my usual vodka water with three lemons. Kickapoo decided that sounded like something she could get into and ordered the same. Minutes later the waitress came back with two vodka waters with three slices of limes perched on the rim of each glass. She winked at us and proclaimed that she had even gone to the trouble of getting us some extra lemons before she turned and walked away. I looked down at my drink and scratched my head. Surely she understood the difference between a lemon and a lime? I flagged down our fruit expert and politely mentioned that I would go ahead and drink what was in front of me but on the next round I would like lemon instead of lime. She looked embarrassed or I could have been misreading confusion on her face. She apologized and told us that on the next round she would bring us a whole shot glass full of lemons. Way to go retard, offer to bring us the smallest container you have in the bar FULL of lemons. What an amazing gesture that was. We only stayed for about an hour before I begged the two of them to get me the hell out of there.

Later that evening after the three of us sat on the back porch drinking our troubles away I excused myself and drug my tired ass to bed. Somewhere around 2:00 am, I was awoken by the sound of a UFC fight in the next room. Clit and Kickapoo had obviously drank one too many and were now screaming at each other just outside of my bedroom. I could not make out what they were fighting about or if any blood had been shed but I decided to check it out anyway. A few minutes later I walked into the living room to find Kickapoo in her panties and Clit peeing in the backyard. I turned around and went back to bed.

The next day after having lunch and running around town we headed back to the house to grill out and watch The Hangover. I was delighted to stay in for the evening given my experience at the bar the night before. On the way home from the grocery store Clit asked me if I wanted to see the house owned by the woman that invented the stair master. Who could say no to that? We detoured past the road that led to their house and made our way over to stair master heaven. We pulled up to a mini mansion that had one of the most scenic lots I have ever laid my eyes on. This woman knew what she was doing. She had tons of land, a duck pond, countless trees, and had clearly spent more than I make in a year on her monthly landscaping bill. Kickapoo was driving down a side street to get a better view of the house when I noticed a rather large pile of rocks right outside of the gate. I looked back at Clit and dared him to jump the fence and steal one of the large rocks. I have no idea why I did this, however it sounded like an amazing idea at the time. Clit was game for a little B and E so we both exited the vehicle and stopped just outside of the gate.

A car full of meth addicts slowly drove past us as we were standing there. At this point, Clit began to get a little nervous and was telling me to “be quiet” and “just be cool for a minute”. It was almost as if we were in a lost scene from Stand By Me and I had just asked him if he wanted to see a dead body. Neither of us made a sound. Clit attempted to back out at the last minute. When I asked him if he had a vagina he decided it was now or never. He hopped then fence and ran over to the pile of rocks. He grabbed the first one he laid his hands on and ran like a girl back to the car. We both jumped in as Kickapoo sped away. The three of us laughed the entire ride back to their house as we marveled at our trophy.

We spent the rest of the holiday weekend sitting on the back porch drinking and laughing like we were five again. Despite their address, I really do love Clit and Kickapoo. They can always be counted upon for a good time. Whether we are making jokes at each others expense or robbing neighbors of their landscaping materials, there is never a dull moment. After all we had been through that weekend we were damn near family by the time I got back in my car to begin the ridiculous drive home.

I have had a certain man in my life for the past nine or so years. We’ll call him, Yum Dinger. We have a complicated love/hate relationship. I love him, he hates me. Well, okay so I guess it's not all that complicated. Anyhow, for better or for worse he has always been there. We are two peas in a pod. We go together like mustaches and child molesters.

Dinger and I usually like to spend our time somewhere between dating and being best friends. It’s a gray area that I would not trade for all of the free alcohol in the world. These days we are trying our hand at dating again and I must admit that it is going exceptionally well. I have been happier than a retard with a balloon. What can I say, the man makes me smile.

My mother and I recently took a trip to New York City. It was a first for both of us. We stayed in Times Square, we ate in posh restaurants, and even took in a Broadway Show. At the time we thought we were living our own little version of The Real Housewives of NYC. You would have thought that we grew up on the Upper East Side in a rent controlled apartment with a view of the park. We were absolutely ridiculous. We had lunch in Chelsea, we went shopping on 5th Ave, took pictures in front of the Plaza, and then one afternoon we had the bright idea to wander over to Chinatown. This is where our little vacation took a wrong turn and we almost ended up with our pictures on the back of a milk carton.

Mom desperately wanted a knock off Chanel handbag. She drug me to parts of New York City that were certainly not in any travel guide I have ever seen. Our taxi dropped us off on the ever infamous Canal St and so it began. Let me start by saying that the sheer amount of people piled in and out of these little makeshift stores was enough to send any claustrophobic into therapy for years. I immediately noticed that NYPD’s finest was also camped out on every corner. I could not decide if that was a good thing or bad thing. Either way it made for some nice scenery.

The first couple of huts that we went into had plenty of handbags but nothing with the kind of label that we were looking for. Every shop owner that we walked past tried to waive us in telling us…“We make great price for you”. “Come in! Have a look”. “Hey pretty lady you want Rolex?’. I have never been so popular in my life. I was eating up all of the attention and really enjoying myself but Mom was on a mission so we pressed on. After a few more “stores” we began to realize that tracking down anything with the word Chanel on it maybe harder than we thought. We discussed giving up and calling it a day. Suddenly I heard a voice behind me whisper “You want handbag? Gucci, Prada, Chanel?” I turned to find a rather small Asian woman in large black sunglasses nodding me to follow her. I looked over at my mother and told her to follow me. We had hit the jackpot.

The small woman, we will call her Connie Chung, was wearing a brown hoodie that was at least 3 sizes too big for her and kept talking on a walkie talkie as we followed her down Canal St. Connie told us to stay far behind her so it would not look like we were following her. This was evidently not her first rodeo. Every few minutes or so she would look back and make sure that we were still there. Before I could say Jimmy Choo she had led us off of Canal St. and into some real shit. The streets signs were now in both Chinese and English. I no longer saw any other tourists passing us on the streets. Now we were surrounded by little Chinese woman carrying grocery bags and Chinese men sitting outside smoking cigarettes. I looked over at mom and whispered that we may be in “Big trouble little China”. She of course did not get the reference and gave me that same funny look that she always does when I throw something random at her.

After what seemed like miles Connie finally turns around again and whispers to me “No more store, you look at picture”. I had no idea what she meant. At this point we were so far into this misadventure that I really didn’t care. I had to see how this played out. Connie gets on her radio again and I see another woman across the street talking back to her. This one was much taller and you could tell by the way she carried herself that she was much higher up on the counterfeit ladder than Mrs. Chung. Once we made our way across the street the taller woman pulled out a laminated piece of paper from underneath her Bra. She was a real class act. She had us go stand in a corner and open it up. Once we opened up the sweaty piece of paper we saw that it had pictures of handbags on it. I now understood what Connie Chung had whispered to me earlier. Mom sorted through the 50 or so handbags and picked out one that she wanted to look at. I nodded to the tall broad to come back over as we had made our choice. My mother pointed to the picture of the one she wanted to look at. Before we could get another word in, she said yelled at us that it would be “90 dolla”. I burst into laughter. I seriously thought she was kidding. She apparently did not think this was funny at all and snatched the paper out of my moms hand and walked off.

Mom and I looked at each other and knew that we might be in some serious trouble. We were now deep into Chinatown and all kinds of lost. I was not positive that we would be able to find our way back to Canal St. I started picturing myself being sold into slavery and forced to work in the factories that make the handbags. I had leap into action and use whatever brain cells I had left over from my teens. I grabbed mom by the hand and started trying to retrace our steps. Connie saw us making our way back with out a purse in hand and gave us a dirty look as we passed her. What an amazing friend she turned out to be. We finally made it back to Canal St after making a few wrong turns and seeing things I really could have lived my entire life without seeing. The streets were once again peppered with pale faces and women wearing fanny packs. I had never been so happy to see poorly dressed Americans in my life.

I was checking out a particularly good looking member of the NYPD standing a few feet away from me when I heard another voice behind me whisper.. “You want handbag”. I turned to Mom hoping she would have had enough of Chinatown and wanted to keep walking. This was not the case. I was surely high if I thought for a minute Mom was prepared to leave NYC without a beautiful knockoff on her arm. The woman was on a mission. I turned to the voice I heard behind me and nodded that the deal was on. This time our tour guide was an adorable little Chinese man. I immediately named him Fried Rice. He was a much better fit for us as he did not seem near as sketchy and smiled almost too much. He was wearing a delightful little button down tucked into his khaki pants. I liked him right from the start.

Fried Rice took us behind a park just off of Canal St. and led us into a building that was within spitting distance of the Manhattan Bridge. Our new friend did not speak as much English as I would have hoped but he knew enough to get the job done. He took us into what we thought was an apartment but ended up being handbag heaven for my mother. Every square inch of the place was lined with every label you could think of. From floor to ceiling was nothing but handbags in every color of the rainbow. My mother finally found one that suited her and began the long bargaining dance that Canal St. is known for. Fried Rice eventually settled on a price that seemed fair to the both of them and we said our goodbyes.

Mom and I eventually made our way back to civilization and into a cab. We had made it out of this near disaster alive and well despite our better efforts to completely throw caution to the wind. Mom marveled at her new handbag and I vowed to never set foot on Canal St. again.

I am almost positive that I was born with a certain amount of anger management issues. I take an active effort to control the part of my brain that wishes to bitch slap the majority of people that I come into contact with. As I have gotten older this task has gotten much easier. It is a rare occasion that others can see the better looking version of The Incredible Hulk that lurks beneath the surface of my smile. A few days ago my ability to control this beast completely failed me and I unleashed some serious misplaced anger on an unsuspecting contractor. My timing however ended up being impeccable as I turned the perfect shade of green for Saint Patrick’s Day.

I was at work and chatting up and incredibly handsome gentleman that had stopped by my office. A few minutes into my fake laugh and perceived interest into what he was saying one of my residents walked in and asked if he could interrupt me for a moment. My first thought was to tell him that he already had. Instead of my usual snarky comment, I went with something like “sure” and followed him outside to the parking garage so that he could show me how a large truck was blocking the exit gate.

A contractor had parked his truck just outside of the gate completely blocking it from both sides. Before I got close enough to see what he was doing I called out to the poorly dressed man standing next to said truck and did what I thought was the obvious thing given the situation. I told him he needed to move his truck because he was blocking our gate. This clearly did not go over well with Mr. Pit Stains. He began shouting and throwing his hands up in the air like a wild monkey. As I got closer to him it appeared that he had been working on a portion of the gate track. My boss was of course MIA at the time and had evidently failed to mention to me that she scheduled a contractor to repair the gate.

I suddenly found myself standing in the middle of a pissing match between two grown men. My resident was yelling at the contractor to move his truck and the contractor was yelling back some sort of nonsense at the both of us. I considered for a moment just letting the two idiots fight it out and calling the rest of the staff to watch. I ended up going with the alternative. I used my “outside voice” to get the attention of the contractor and told him to calm down. This made Pit Stains very angry. In addition to speaking to me like I was a five year old he also managed to work in some expletives here and there. He was now screaming at me. After telling him at least 3 or 4 more times that he needed to calm down and stop yelling at me I realized that I was trying to reason with someone with the IQ of a potato. I gave up.

I ushered the resident past Pit Stains and directed him to an alternate gate that I had momentarily forgotten about during all of the commotion. The resident was able to finally exit the property. I waived him goodbye as I started to walk back to my office. I was approaching the back of Pit Stains bent over working on the gate. I attempted to just walk past him and go on about my day. I knew better than to try to reason with this clown. He however was clearly ready for round two of The Hulk vs. Pit Stains. He jumped up just as I was almost past him. He walked over to me and right into my personal space.

He apparently had overheard me apologize to the resident regarding his behavior and really the situation in general. He now wanted to know where his “EFFIN apology was”? That was it. That was the exact moment that I lost all control over my mouth. In a split second I turned into a ten foot tall bullet proof broad from somewhere along the Jersey Shore. More than a few of the vile phrases that came out of my mouth that day could only be found on urbandictionary.com. I was spewing words at him so fast that I am pretty sure I made up at least one or two of them. I was screaming obscenities at him and shoving my finger in his face. I am sure I even used some moves I remembered seeing on the Jerry Springer show in the early 90’s. I pulled out all of the stops for Pit Stains….. He truly got some of my best work.

Who knows how long this spectacle went on for? I was certainly out of my mind at the time. Thankfully, the entire scene ended as quickly as it began. I threw out one more “Who the French do you think you are?” and abruptly turned and walked away. Pit Stains however serenaded me with his extensive four letter vocabulary until I reached the front doors of my office.

As I sat back down at my desk moments later I was not at all proud of myself. I had just declared war on a complete stranger. Not exactly one of my finer moments. Luckily my handsome stranger was still patiently waiting for me in my office. I went back to tossing my hair and giggling like a school girl in record time.

In my experience, repulsive and completely random things just do not happen to people on a Monday. Usually this task is reserved for Friday or Saturday nights and almost always involves alcohol. Sadly this was not at all the case for me last Monday. I have to admit that after Brett Michaels I thought I would have been better prepared for the preposterous side show that found its way into my living room. To my surprise I was entirely mistaken.

It started off as a quiet evening at home. I had just gotten out of the bathtub when my blackberry went off. It was the OG and he wanted to come over. I was a little surprised to hear from him. We really had not spoken much since the night he silently crapped his pants while we attempted to watch The Hangover. My first instinct was to tell him that I had already prepared to call it a night and he should probably be doing the same at his age. Instead, I eventually caved and said what the hell.

He made it over to my apartment in record time. I was still in my robe when I heard the knock on my door. As I went to let him in I wondered how in the hell he got over here so fast. Either I am entirely too predictable or he had been sweating to the oldies earlier in the day and was still in hyper speed.

I brought him into the living room and told him to make himself at home. He sat down on the couch and began flipping through channels on my TV. I figured he would be okay on his own while I changed into my pjs and finished up in the bathroom. A few minutes later I heard him rummaging through my refrigerator and helping himself to whatever he found. Though I was a little annoyed that he was digging around in my kitchen like a meth head in full tweak mode, I had to remember that I was the genius that told him to make himself at home.

I emerged from my bedroom only a few moments later. As I walked into the living room and took one look at the scene in front of me it was all I could do to remember to breath. I stood there in silence for what seemed like forever. I remember thinking that I had to have been dreaming because this kind of shit just was not possible. Sitting on my couch in all of his glory was the OG… butt ass naked eating tangerines.

This lunatic had actually removed all of this clothing, ransacked my refrigerator, then sat down on my couch and made himself a little picnic. I looked down and noticed that certain parts of his body were nestled in between my couch cushions and this was not the kind of situation that a little febreeze could take care of. His sad little man boobs were ever so gently resting on top of his stomach where he also had 3 tangerines camped out waiting for their turn to be peeled.

After I picked my mouth back up off of the floor I finally managed to speak. I asked him just what in the hell he thought he was doing. He proceeded to tell me that this was his idea of a practical joke and that he was just trying to make me laugh. I could not even respond. I threw his pants at him and told him to get dressed. As he was shoving his own little tangerines back into his pants he kept asking me what was wrong.

At this point I knew that this would be the last time the OG and I saw each other. It became more than obvious that the only time he and I had any chemistry is when I was completely snockered. Since I was not prepared to become a full blown alcoholic I did the grown up thing and told him that it was time for him to leave. I walked him to the door and locked it behind him. I spent the next hour cleaning my couch cushions and throwing out the rest of my tangerines.

I certainly do not remember sitting down one evening with a glass of wine and writing out my new life plan. However it has become apparent over the past month or so that I may have entered the witness protection program with out my knowledge. I woke up the other day and realized that I had made more than just a few changes in my life without so much as blinking an eye.

I rolled over in bed that particular morning and noticed that the sun was pouring in my bedroom window. It took me a second to remember that I had pulled my curtains back a week or so before to “let some light in”. If you have spent any time in any of my apartments over the past few years you would know that I prefer to live in a cave. Sun light has always been my nemesis and I pride myself on walking into my apartment in the middle of the day and having to adjust my eyes to the utter darkness.

A few minutes later I drug my tired ass into the bathroom to turn on the shower. I glanced over at the mirror and almost didn’t recognize the brunette with sleep in her eye that was staring back at me. Flash back to New Years Eve when I got the brilliant idea to dye my hair and remove any trace of the blonde locks that I had sported for the past 28 years.

Later that morning after going to battle with some random A hole and then mastering the art of looking busy, I snuck outside to enjoy a few moments of quiet and a cigarette. I grabbed my pack of parliament lights and headed for the door. I almost didn’t recognize the box of lung cancer in my hand. I had smoked the ever popular Marlboro Lights since I was 16… When exactly did I switch brands? And more importantly.. Why?

Cut to an hour or so later and I am sitting in the break room eating lunch two complete clown shows. The two of them have their taco bell spread out from one end of the table to the other. It somewhat resembled the last supper and I was half expecting someone to ask me to drink their blood. I proceeded to open my neatly packed tupperware and dive into the fresh fruit I had cut and prepared for myself the night before. Just as I was going to open my bottle of water the clown show asked me if I wanted to split a coke with her. I reminded her that in addition to recently becoming a vegetarian I also was no longer drinking sodas. This was the moment that I realized we were not in Kansas anymore.

I never make new years resolutions because I never stick to them. I find them pointless in this respect. Looking back, it’s almost like I was trying to trick myself into making a few improvements by not putting too much focus on them. Thus it seemed like a lot less work. I am not sure this says much for my intelligence level though…. I mean how dumb do you have to be to be able to sneak attack yourself?

The moral of the story is I stopped eating meat 35 days ago. I stopped drinking cokes almost four weeks ago. I finally broke down and bought a scale three weeks ago. I went from drinking crown and coke 2-3 nights a week to vodka and water only one night a week. As of this morning I am eight pounds lighter and the future is looking so bright that I may have to wear shades.

So last Monday night I found myself a little lonely and in desperate need of some entertainment. I had been in Florida over Christmas and surrounded by people for days at a time. Sitting in my apartment staring at the walls did not sound like a fabulous idea. I looked over at my suit case that I still had not unpacked and the piles of laundry next to it that I could surely do to occupy my time. It only took me about three seconds to pick up the phone and text the OG instead. He was standing outside of my door within an hour.

As I opened the door I let out a small sigh and smiled. This time he was more appropriately dressed and was looking rather dashing in his black rimmed glasses. Moments late we found our way over to the couch and opened the bottle of wine that he had brought with him. This evening was getting better by the minute. He had also brought over some fruit that he peeled and fed to me. This wasn’t quite as lame as it sounds I promise. It’s not like he cut it up for me baby style and said here comes the plane right before she shoved it in my mouth. This was much more adult and to be honest kind of endearing. After a few minutes of “How was your Christmas” and “What are your plans for New Years” we decided to watch my new favorite movie, The Hangover. I turned off all of the lights in the living room with the exception of the Christmas tree. Everything was set for a nice quiet evening at home. I snuggled up next to the OG just as the movie started to play.

This is where the evening starts to go down hill and fast.

I realized rather quickly that my date for the evening was not the movie buff that I considered myself to be. I had to remind myself that he had probably been around when silent movies were all the rage and may still be getting used to a color television. After almost every scene he would ask me “So what’s going on here”… I would spend the next five or so minutes explaining to him the premise of the movie or the reason why I laughed at a particular line. We were not watching The Talented Mr. Ripley or Clockwork Orange. This was the kind of movie even a five year old could have grasped.

Just when I thought things could not get worse they did. I was still snuggled up to gramps when he hit with me with some of the worst gas I have experienced in my adult life. I had just been bombed by the ever infamous silent but deadly fart. I immediately looked over at him in complete disgust. His eyes were fixated on the movie screen; he did not dare look at me. I started to dry heave just a little as the fumes made their way through my nose. I knew this maneuver all to well seeing as how I had just pulled the same shenanigans on my brother Christmas Eve in church. I had blown him out of the water just before we sang Silent Night. He told me later that it was like being hit with a heat wave and that he thought he might have even inhaled some of it. I now knew first hand what I had put my brother through.

You would have thought that the one that he let get away would have been enough motivation for him to clench his butt cheeks together for the rest of the movie. This was not the case. I sat there for the next hour or so holding back tears from the poisonous gas that surrounded me and practiced holding my breath for as long as I could.

It is a little known fact that the older people get the more they loose the ability to control the noises, or smells for that matter, that come out of their anus. I considered asking OG if this was in fact the case but reluctantly I sat quietly as he blasted me 3 or 4 more times during the movie. I tried to my hardest not to burst into laughter when even the dog jumped down and went into the other room.