Last Monday,
my boss surprised us by treating
us to lunch. His food of choice:
Indian take-out food.
Interesting stuff. It tastes
good going down, but tastes like
rotting seaweed when you belch.
That night, I was playing
peek-a-boo with my son, with him
hiding under my blanket, when I
felt a sudden need to flatulate.
Now, usually, my farts are a
source of fun and amusement for
my kids. My daughter will laugh,
point at me, and say "Daddy, you
a farty!", while my son will
look with curiosity at my butt,
and say "Hmm, daddy, you have a
poopy?" On this occasion,
however, there would be no
amusement.
With my son hiding under the
blanket, and my butt under the
same blanket, I let one rip. As
this was the first occasion I
had eaten Indian food, I had no
idea how it would affect my
digestive tract. Right away, I
knew I was in trouble, as it not
only came out whisper-silent, it
caused second- and third-degree
burns on both of my butt cheeks.
My concern shifted to my son.
Surely I couldn't afflict him
with this! But, then, I thought
back to my childhood. My dad, if
one examined his entrails,
surely would have Superman's "S"
logo engraved on them. The man
was a legend. After the coughing
and gagging, I found that it was
a part of the bonding process
between my dad and I. And what a
better opportunity to pass on
that tradition of father-son
bonding then this?
A couple of seconds after
launching the biscuit of death,
my son reacted. Not with
laughter. Rather, he quickly
jerked his head in one
direction, then the other. In
attempting to escape the
suffocating blanket, he managed
to twist himself up in the
blanket, trapping himself.
Having rendered himself
completely immobile, he began to
cough, and cry. I lifted the
blanket, and found my son with
his eyes closed, mouth open,
crying, coughing, and
dry-heaving all at once. I felt
bad that it had affected him so
badly...
Then I inhaled it.
Good Lord, Sweet Jesus.
Forget what I had said in the
past about my boss's dumps. That
was blooming hyacinth compared
to this. This wasn't horrible.
It wasn't even nuclear. This
was... antimatter. Yes, in a
process that perhaps only
Stephen Hawking could explain,
the Indian cuisine had combined
with the digestive enzymes in my
stomach and intestines to
produce a sizeable quantity of
antimatter. I assumed the same
position as my son... eyes
closed... mouth open...
coughing, crying (eyes watering)
and dry-heaving all at once.
Then, my wife, who heard the
commotion, came in. "Rich?
What's going on? Is everything
o... JESUS CHRIST!!!" My wife
then joined our little
eyed-closed, mouth-open,
coughing/crying/dry-heaving
party.
I felt like a bad father. This
wasn't male bonding; this was
borderline abuse. This was like
putting a little-leaguer up to
bat against a pissed-off Randy
Johnson. I'm certain that years
down the road, he'll be lying on
a psychiatrist's couch because
of this incident.
About an hour later, I was in
the living room, surveying the
scene. My son was sitting on the
couch, swaddled in his blanket,
staring blankly at the TV,
looking like a survivor of a
natural catastrophe. I sat
lightly on the computer chair,
nursing my badly-burned glutes.
And my wife, working on the
computer in our bedroom, yelled
out "CHRIST, IT STILL SMELLS
LIKE DEATH IN HERE!"
I will not be dining on Indian
food again... until right before
I leave for the wx conference.
Teehee.