I’m apologizing for this in advance:
In my relationship, I’m the farter. Sad, but true fact. Russell has what he calls a “gentleman’s butthole,” and refuses to let anything rip in the presence of others. Even when finding himself alone, he insists only dogs can hear the compositions of his musical fruit. His ass is so tight that if you shoved a lump of coal up it, in two weeks you’d have a stinky lump of coal. (Study geology, people!) As for myself? I put the “holy” in “holy shit, who farted!?” It was likely Kim. This is not a point of pride for me, but unlike my boyfriend, I at least understand the value of personal comfort.
My family certainly gave me plenty of encouragement growing up. Born within every Woodard is the Sphincter of Legend, but it is hardly a myth. (The truth, as they say, is smellier than fiction.) It seems to exist for no other reason than to end Thanksgiving. We’re talking about farts that can blind a man at a hundred paces. Farts that leave tan lines. Farts that can strip the paint off a wicker swing set. Farts that will free Tibet. Russell should count his blessings that of all my family’s salsas, he got stuck with mild. The worst I can do is rearrange furniture, and that’s at my broccoliest.
My kids are somewhere in between. They can clear the dinner table (which has nothing to do with cleaning), but can’t quite achieve lift. Their ass gas is also oddly contagious; when one of them starts popping off, the others provide backup vocals.
My poor mom. When I say “every Woodard,” I am of course excluding anyone silly enough to have married one. When they bought the cow, they had no idea how sour its milk would be. Russell only knows about mine because I am a dirty heathen, living the antilife of a wrong thing. So, to celebrate these foul facts of familial flatulence, I present to you just about the unhealthiest thing I’ve made here:
Who Cut the Grilled Cheese Sandwich?
- 4 slices bread
- 2 tbsp salted butter
- 1/2 tsp minced garlic
- 4 tbsp parmesan cheese
- 4 slices cheese (use any kind that makes you happy)
Melt butter in large skillet. Add garlic and sprinkle parmesan evenly over skillet. Dredge one side of bread slices in melted butter. Place sliced cheese on 2 of the slices and top with the other 2 slices. Grill, pressing sandwich with spatula. Flip over when browned, and continue to grill until second side is browned and cheese is melted. This tastes like Texas Toast grilled cheese, and is as damn good as that sounds.
Ever since I started this whole blogging nonsense, I’ve been trying to come up with an appropriate catchphrase for it. Based on the strength of today’s post (and a few others), I was thinking “The White Trash Gourmet: Throwing family under the bus since 2011.” No matter how candid my writing gets, however, I’m not terribly worried about anyone’s reaction. Should a day come when my family tries to claim my head, I’m sure I’ll be able to smell them miles away. Love you, guys. I’m deeply sorry for most of the things I choose to be.
TWTG says, “I had to turn on the cat’s fart fan!”