Today I’m nursing a hangover, well that’s what I keep telling myself. The fact my head is glued to the toilet seat lets you know how well I’m handling my current situation. I’m an excellent drinker, and the best partygoer known to man, but come the morning after I transform into The Hulk on steroids. I’m crabby, hungry, and green from throwing up every last drop of my stomach. Yeah, I bet that had you reaching for your mouth. I could even go into detail about the little chunks floating around in the bog water, but I won’t.
Sorry for the overshare, but I told you I’m horrible the day after.
Anyway, you’ve probably guessed I’m not much of a lady. That’s okay. It’s too hard to be funny while minding my manners. Last night is a prime example for that.
Have you ever really noticed how funny farts are? And I’m not just talking about the little puffs of air that escape when you bend over. Those are harmless little bubbles of embarrassment. No, I’m on about the stomach-ripping explosions of gas that intoxicate an entire crowd on the dance floor. I’m telling you, if the army ever run out of tear gas, then all they need to do is bottle up a fart. That baby will render anyone defenceless, and that, my friends, is a million-dollar idea. Trust me, I know how effective it is.
Okay, so last night I’m busy dancing on the table tops when I spot my rescuer amid the hazy nightclub’s room. You remember the tall, dark and handsome one that watched my dignity disappear the moment my lips became a prime target for bird poop practice? Yeah, him. And I’m telling you, there’s no living that down. Once a guy has watched your mouth become a receiver for crap, it doesn’t matter how much bleach you’ve scrubbed your lips with. That guy is never going to kiss you.
I guess you’re wondering why I even bothered to try and seduce him. I’m waiting for that answer too, especially when all I’ve done is make matters worse for myself.
So, I’m busting out these ‘impressive’ shapes I’m always watching in music videos. A pop of the arm here, and a twerk there, making sure I’ve got the ‘Miley’ down to a tee when Drew (the guy) comes towards me. He’s wrapping his hands around me, and grabbing on to my butt to pull me off of the table, when I let one rip. Yes, ladies. It caught me off guard, and I didn’t have the time to clench my cheeks and keep that sucker where it belonged.
And I did the only thing I thought would help the situation.
I farted again, and laughed until the smell came. That’s when the room kind of bunched to one side before they cleared out. And Drew, bless him, shirked it off before he made his quick exit.
All I know is if the bird poop isn’t enough to keep him away, then I’m pretty sure that cutting the cheese has done it for me.
While I hang my head in the toilet of shame with last night’s vodka keeping me company, I can’t help but wonder.
Maybe flatulence isn’t as funny as I thought.
Stay tuned for more adventures next week in Living Funny; Dying Clumsy