by Jessica Kaaz

Created on: March 06, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

I never thought, in all my adult life, that I would ever witness something as crude, foul, rank and disturbing as what I witnessed last Sunday morning. And to my surprise, my husband was involved.

That fateful morning the sun rose as always, the birds chirped as they normally do and the house slowly began to awaken at about 9 am. By 10 o'clock, everyone was in the kitchen, gathering for morning coffee, Sunday breakfast and general interaction. Everyone, that is, except my husband. Over the years, I had grown accustomed to his weekend hibernation habits. Most wives would complain, but I took the approach that my husband worked hard and played hard and his nap time was my shopping time. So, when 10:15 rolled around and my husband appeared from our bedroom, hair pressed to his forehead, his goatee smashed on his chin and those little red sleep lines across his arms and face, the entire house was a little surprised.

My mother-in-law, father-in-law, brother-in-law and 5 year old nephew, greeted my husband jovially and his coffee cup was full with caffeinated goodness in seconds flat. We encouraged him to take seat, grab a plate and let us know what he had planned for the day. Ten minutes went by and my husband still hadn't spoken a word.

By this time, his mother, intuitive as she is, noticed that something was not quite right. Picking up on this assessment immediately, I turned to look at my husband and his face was scrunched in a way that screamed pain, sickness, and mischief all at the same time. The entire table got quiet, but no one could have guessed what was going to happen next.

My husband jumped to his feet so fast that my mother- and father-in-law both covered their faces, presumably prepared to dodge possible projectile vomit, my brother-in-law was startled a foot into the air and my nephew and I probably resembled deer in headlights. Before anyone realized what was happening, the sound of a loud, clapping, deep, cavernous belly fart filled the air. The smell permeated everything and the coffee instantly went rancid.

At that very moment, when the entire family was about to scream in protest and run for cover, my 5 year old nephew let out a noise that was synonymous with a torturous death. My husband had a firm hold of my nephew's hand positioned millimeters from the offending butt. I imagine, my nephew could very well have felt every single note in that fart with the palm of his hand.

My husband was, at this point, no longer looking ill, but rather elated. He was doubled over, not in agony, but in laughter. The rest of us weren't sure whether to be angry or entertained. Should we be angry and take the little guy's side, protesting the injustice of it all? Or should we take my husband's side and giggle uncontrollably?

I ventured to follow the lead of a five year old. As soon as he began beating on his uncle, who was still crying with laughter five minutes later, a frown of disgust turned to a playful smile and the only thing left to do was let out a few chuckles and hope you weren't going to be the next victim.

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