Super Stench Sunday

Superbowl Sunday is always a bittersweet day in our house. It is always just plain happy for me because football finally ends and I can stop planning our weekends pretending Sundays don't exist because stew MUST watch football. For Stew, it is the day he waits for all year. An entire day of gut gluttony spanning the alphabet of debauchery from beer to towering nachos. He usually gets together with his guy friends and they hole themselves up like some "no girls allowed" clubhouse in one of their apartments with a gigantic TV and half a supermarket worth of of food. I don't hear from him for hours and I always feel guilty if I have to call and interrupt "guy-time" so I make sure I only call for extreme emergencies or computer disasters.

However, this year, because Stew's friends are all growing up and getting married, the event failed to become an all-guys event. For the first time in their Superbowl history, girlfriends and girls were allowed to infiltrate the clubhouse. I was actually a little bummed. I start work soon so I was looking forward to basking in the final few moments of time to myself. But, I was torn because Stew was gone all of Saturday visiting friends in Massachusetts so we didn't have much time together this weekend at all. I figured we would take two cars and that would free me up to leave whenever when I had my fill of food.

By halftime, you could tell the few guys that made it to the party this year (which wasn't many compared to previous years) were sorry they let girls share their day when they were outvoted on Prince's halftime show. I left around 8:40 so I could get home and watch the Surreal Life Fame Games which ended up not being on anyway. So, really, I came home for nothing except . . . .

Except buying myself some time away from the noxious fumes that would emanate from Stew's ass the second he walked in. I should have been more prepared. I should have started burning Yankee candles the second I walked in. I should have strung matches about the room and began burning them so that the sulfur would cancel out any of the choking gas he expelled post Lard Fest.

I just should have known.

Last year, Stew came home. I was already reading in bed and he slithered in next to me. I put my book away and went in to steal his warmth. One thing led to another (what can I say, living together was still pretty new) and we started fooling around until I smelled a SBD toot he must have let sneak out. It hung there in the air like a thick shield of just plain nasty. I turned away in disgust and began choking on my own breath trying not to open my mouth for fear the stench will get in my throat. I don't use the word horrendous often because it is a powerful word only used to describe the ugliest of misadventures. However, I will say it in this case, it was HORRENDOUS.

This year, he tried to take all kinds of precautions by planting himself on the couch behind me which is clear across the room. As thick as that gas was, it wasn't going to be drifting my way anytime soon. He also warned me if he saw me coming too close like a fart alarm, "Stay back, Lulu. You don't want to come over here now." And when I did make an attempt to join him, my weight on the cushion pushed out a cloud of rank like seconds for me to enjoy.

I should have made him sleep on the couch but against my better judgement, I let him share the room with me. Before he fell asleep and couldn't control it, he would get up when he knew one was coming and leave the room. Sometimes, it followed him in like an aura of rot.

He started to drift to sleep and I knew I was DOOMED. Once he relaxed so would his sphincter muscles and and it would become a no holds barred Fume Fest in my bedroom . . . . where I sleep. God help me. He woke himself up once and jolted out of the room.

"Turn around 10 times to shake the stank off before you come back," I screamed and continued reading.

A few seconds later I heard what sounded like bare feet turning around several times on a wood floor and I thought, "Is he really turning? I was just kidding. That doesn't even sound like logical advice." I laughed at the thought and then said to myself, "No way."

"Wow, I'm dizzy," I hear from the other room.

Hahahahaha. I laughed and laugh and laughed.

"You actually spun around 10 times?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said emerging into the room while holding his head. "It sounded like good advice."

The scary thing is, it was. Not so much as a dull whiff followed him in. I was suffering after he went to sleep tho'. I actually thought about sleeping on the couch.

Next year. I will be ready.