Tuesday, September 29, 2009


If methane were a limited and expensive commodity, I would be a very rich man. This morning I awoke to, "I can't sleep, I think I'm going to vomit, your ass smells horrible, you've been at it all night".

She was right. I had more green clouds coming from me than the Wicked Witch of the West. More smoke than a magic show. Had you put some floaties on me on the Cuban coast, I coulda tooted over one hundred refugees in an hour (being that Cuba is 90 miles from Florida, mathematically my ass would have been going 90 miles per hour).

Call it a blessing or a curse (depending who you are), the Jacobs butt reigns supreme and it's disgusting. I woke up literally tearing up and gagging from some of the rotten eggs I laid.

And it's not really what I eat or don't eat, I have always been tooteriffic. My poor wife, my poor dog. They will all succumb to some sort of interstitial lung disease some day. So what do I do? Take Beano? Maybe Activia? It's a conundrum of manhood. I mean, think about it, someone else farts, it smells, we're all grossed out. But to paraphrase what George Carlin once said, "When we fart, we're kinda like, Hey, that's not so bad, we grin, and sometimes we giggle". And as much as I was gagging this morning from the putrid stench I emitted, I was physically giggling at the fact that I farted. As I write, I'm grinning from ear to ear anticipating at the next possibility for spontaneous combustion.

Thank God for being a newlywed, because she still puts up with it. I can see however that my future will consist of two separate rooms for those nights I create my own magic show of "Matty the Human Fog Machine".

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