If you rip ass in the desert, does it make a sound?
Before we moved to Connecticut and sold our souls for money and unhappiness, Mistress and I used to live in Bend, Oregon which, if you’re not familiar with it, is located in the High Desert, to the east of the Cascade Mountains. It’s been years since we’ve been home, but we are finally back visiting for the week. No matter how long it takes between visits, there are certain things I always remember about being in the high desert; like the intoxicating scent of juniper and pine, or the view of the mountains, or the creepily homogenized plethora of beautiful white people.
One thing I always seem to forget about visiting here however, is the non-stop flatulence. I’ll be the first to admit, Mistress is pretty susceptible to the bubble guts anyway, and my insides are always a half step away from total catastrophe, but not like this. Never like this.
Using my traditional fool proof scientific method of thinking of something that kind of makes logical sense, and going with that without any actual research or verification, i’ve decided that we turn into perpetual fart box machines whenever we come to Bend because of elevation change. Living as we do, at sea level, in Connecticut, coming to the high desert is a dramatic change in altitude. Evidently this is enough to make us cut more cheese than a Tillamook dairy farmer. Usually we can just crop dust around town, leaving behind an anonymous legacy of SBDs and hidden shame, but this week for some reason we’ve been hitting the poop breeze trifecta – odorous, frequent, and loud.
For me, the shartmageddon began on the plane, before we even landed in Oregon. I’m not sure where we were flying over, but approximately midway through the flight I was awoken from my peaceful slumber by some rude dude busting a gnarly ear popper of a fart. Unfortunately, I was that dude, and the entire plane heard me. I’m not saying it was the loudest fart ever, that distinction belongs to Mistress, but it was loud. Loud enough that the pilot put the fasten seat belt signs back on, and loud enough that I was identified and subsequently tazed by an air marshall who didn’t appreciate being stuck in a sealed petri dish with my stink for 3 hours. To the passengers of Delta flight 7033, if any of you got pink eye, I sincerely apologize.
For Mistress, her close encounter of the fart kind happened once we were already in town. We went out for some food, and after dinner we decided to extend our evening a little further with some drinks around the fire pit on the patio beside Anthony’s restaurant, which is a pricy, fancy establishment. There we were, sharing the warmth of the fire with four other people, me with my Jack and ginger, her with her Gin and tonic…and her smelly little secret. Midway through a compelling story, Mistress decided to share her secret with me. Unfortunately, her sphincter spoke too loud, and she shared her secret with the entire restaurant, and I must admit, it was a long, eloquent, and multi-faceted secret. Maybe she could have gotten away with it, maybe, if she didn’t immediately start laughing so hard that her eye liner was running down her face. Subtle Mistress. Subtle.
Needless to say, we had to depart shortly thereafter, to post up in our room for the night, left alone with our poots and our giggles.
We’re happy to be back in Bend. Bend’s feelings about us however, are mixed at best.