ItsOnlyBob

Several years ago, Linda and I were in a store at the mall when I let out an SBD. Holy Jesus. Easily the most foul-smelling atrocity I've ever committed. It was so horrid, I couldn't bear to own up to it—even to my spouse, who is well acquainted with the weapons-grade exhaust our two sons and I can produce.  But I could hardly pretend we weren’t suddenly standing in a cloying mist of wretched gloom and rotting vegetation, so I faux-innocently darted a few judgy glances at nearby customers. At the very least, I figured a funk so thick and vile must have staying power and long-range mobility, so I could plausibly deflect my guilt if Linda should accuse me: Aw, c’mon, sweetie, that one coulda floated in from the food court!  Well. Linda didn't say anything … but she did indeed react. I could practically see the waft as it traveled up her nostrils. Her nose twitched, and then she winced. That was it—but it was priceless. Mercifully, her eyes betrayed no accusation, ...