My mother has got me thinking about bungholes. She is in her mid 60’s, and let’s just say her unholy hole has seen better days.
She ties her shoes and she farts. Phhht. She sneezes and she farts. Phhht. She walks across the room and farts. Phhht phhht phhht phhht phhht. And she doesn’t even bother to call it. Even if she didn’t hear it, I would think that she certainly she felt it. Or smelt it.
I may be mortified, but I am not surprised. It makes sense that by this age, one’s sphincter would experience some slippage. I mean, imagine the waistband on your oldest pair of underwear. I suspect that’s what happens to one’s blowhole after pushing out 21,600 poops over the course of 60 odd years.
My husband and I made the mistake of sharing a hotel room with her when we attended my cousin’s wedding. While sleeping, she farted about every 30 seconds – no exaggeration. At first, my husband and I laughed. The kind of silent, lip-biting laugh in which your body just shakes. But as the stench descended upon us like a heavy, toxic fog, it became less amusing. When she woke up the next morning, she asked, “Did I snore?” My husband replied under his breath, “Yes. Out of your ASS.”
Don’t get me wrong. I got no hateration for those cursed with being loose of ass. I laugh out of fear, for there’s always the possibility that on my 60th birthday, I will wake up to discover that I have inheirited not two brown eyes, but three, from Rumbles herself.