We were at our new friend’s house tonight. They had bought a wonderful hundred-year-old farm-house on a few acres, complete with a big red barn worthy of any children’s book. (Go find The Big Red Barn if you have never read it. Then come back to this post and go “AH!”)
It was a cool, crisp, clear night…one that was supposed to be full of shooting stars due to a rare meteor shower. All of us had lifted our eyes to the stars, sipping Hot Cider that Jackie and Dave had ever-so-kindly warmed for us in a Dutch Oven over the bonfire. The dogs were out running around the barnyard with Critter and Jeremy and Jesse. Varmint and her friend Julia cuddled near and were, like us, searching the night sky.
The crickets chirped and sang.
Wood smoke wafted through the air.
And then…
“AUGH!!!” Varmint rocked back too far in her campchair trying to better see the sky, and fell (as my Dad would say) ‘ass-over-teakettle’. All we could see were her feet flailing wildly in the air as we gasped and laughed.
And then…
“AUAUAUAUAAHAHHGHGHGH!”
In her descent, Varmint’s chair had caught the camp table behind her…… the table that held the hot dogs and condiments and cider. And it was all slowly dumping on top of her!
My Captain rushed over to help her. Jackie and David rushed over to help her. Even the dogs rushed over to….well, I think they were in truth looking for the fallen hot dogs….but me, I sat where I had been, laughing so loudly and forcefully, it caused my rump to sing. (That’s polite-talk for ‘fart’.)
Which made me laugh harder. … because I’m immature and love potty-humor.
Don’t judge.
They got her up, brushed her off, and got all the furniture set to rights. Varmint was, as always, a good sport and I was very proud of her behavior!
But something didn’t smell right.
At first, of course, I figured it was me. I mean, I was the one who had just had the singing-butt.
But the smell didn’t dissipate.
In fact, the fart stench started to smell like a burnt fart stench.
I glanced down at the fire. There, in the middle of the blaze, was one of Dave’s fireproof gloves. It had evidently gotten tossed into the fire in the fray and frenzy of Varmint’s upending.
And, er, it turns out that, well……
They ain’t so fireproof.
They had burned. Everyone started saying things like, “I WONDERED what that smell was!” and I was relieved no one actually pointed at me.
Now, what I want to know is this: What in tarnation is in those fire-RETARDANT (because fire-proof they surely are not,) gloves to make them smell like the fart of a middle-aged soccer mom? Or, conversely, what is in my rectum that makes my fluffies smell like burning fire-retardant-treated leather?
Someone figure it out and get back to me, please.
Thank you.
Mama Boe 