My recently-divorced BIL (brother-in-law) told me that one nice thing about dating (again) is that there are boundaries.
His new girlfriend has yet to fart on him. And she's yet to institute an open-door bathroom policy.
This was in contradistinction to his (and everyone else's) marriage where the *line was crossed* who knows when.
He said that the first time she *lets one out* on him, SBD or not, he's out of this relationship in a heartbeat. I am sure that the first one his ex-wife (and everyone else's) hit him with was *cute*. He ain't making that mistake again.
We ought to have them over for dinner, serve 'em chile or my potent sausage and lentil soup, and put that promise to the test!
[Check out the young lass above. Someone branded her hiney like she was livestock!]
About ten years ago, a good friend of mine in Philly started his first serious relationship. He complained that his *stomach hurt* because he had to hold in so much methane in the presence of his newfound sweetheart. He'd been letting loose for a couple of decades and this new prohibition was taxing the equilibria of his bodily systems.
I myself remember a going through a similar transition back in the day. Now I'm very much at ease, thank you.
2 comments:
Like a model-Freudian child first discovering their own poop and others', my girlfriend and I have recently begun to explore and accept the fact that we both poop on occasion, which has lead to the amusing little development of everytime I mention that I need to use the restroom, for whatever reason, she inquires,
"To poop?"
as if I was trying to sneak away and do so without her knowledge, each and every time.
I suppose the farting will follow.
I call it the *comfort station*.
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