Goddammit, NOW who cut one?! (Disney Trip Post #1)

     Yes, this post is mostly about farts or whatever you call them. Maybe you refer to them as a rump trumpet, poop chute toot, ass blast, odor floater, crack attack or a rear rattler. Or possibly you say it's a pooper puff, fanny foghorn, rump rumbler, colon cough, bottom burp, keister rooster or even the Italian themed culo cloud.  You might exclaim that you just launched a tushy torpedo, butt bomb, dumper thumper, badonkadonk honk, down under thunder or that you are an anal assassin.  Oh, the number of insomnia hours I have wrapped up in trying to come up with different names for farts.  Time well spent.  But I digress. Now on to the post.

     Well, we are back from Disney and I declared in the hotel room a couple of nights ago that "I am sick of smelling other people's farts."  Don't get me wrong, there is an art to it in not getting caught.  From whoever fed us a bum biscuit in the gift shop by the $9 keychains to the sphincter specialist whose standing ass was at the same height as our sitting face that ruined our bus shuttle sucking a little bit of magic away from our Magic Kingdom trip, I tip my $37 Mickey ears cap.

     The true master of the trip, though, was the genius that fouled up the beginning room of the Haunted Mansion.  You all know the room where you are crammed in like crayons and then the ceiling "stretches" to reveal the funny paintings.  Yes, someone let one fly in there.  It's brilliant.  It is very loudly narrated so no one can hear you fart and the audience is completely captive (remember there are no doors or windows) so everyone gets a chance to enjoy it.  Hell, you can't even take a step away from the smell as it is wall to wall in there.  

     However, I am declaring myself the winner for inadvertently finding the best fart scenario.  I tried to sneak one out on the escalator to our car in the universal parking garage.  I didn't think much about it and thought I had stealthed it pretty good until I heard Andi dry heaving.  Then it hit me.  What a perfect plan.  You get on first, let one go, and then every loved one that has perhaps pissed you off on the trip has to travel face first through your stink cloud.  Again, where can they go but right through it. It just so happens that person was the woman who promised to take me for better or for worse.  I'm assuming this falls into the "for worse" category.   

     That wasn't the only "stink" from the trip, though.  Other than a shot glass (I collect them from everywhere we go), the only other souvenir I bought was a mouse pad from one of those touristy shops run by a delightful foreign-type person.   Keep in mind that I am not racist at all, but more intrigued by other cultures than anything.  

     Mousepad you say?  You know those things that nobody uses anymore hence why they were on a rack marked down to 50% off.  These caught my eye because they were hard plastic instead of the usual floppy foam ones.  I like the hard ones (insert your gay joke here you juveniles) because they are better for working on the carpet or armrest of the couch with the laptop.  

     So when I got home, I excitedly peeled off the yellowed plastic and was thrilled to try it out as it even had as a bonus one of those extra pads to support your wrist.  You will read why the pad is missing later.  See.

     I gave it a dry run and when I pulled my arm back, I caught a strong aroma of what I assume was smoked in a hookah as my mouse pad was being assembled.  The odor was intense.  Andi happened to buy one, too.  We opened hers and the same damn thing met our senses.  Maybe they were packed in a crate with another, uh "shipment", if you catch my drift.  All, I know is that it has been through 2 loads of laundry and as Andi said, "Now it just smells like wet marijuana."

     Man, that mouse pad dealer has the best shit.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go munch on a bowl of Chex Mix and wash it all down with a tall, cool glass of more Chex Mix.

     I just thank God that a drug dog didn't sniff out my mouse pad in the airport because frankly "I swear it's my Mickey Mouse mouse pad that smell's like Willie Nelson's family room" just sounds fishy.