Gas is Combustible

1 pint of beer, a pint of rum, a pint of sour cream, a pint of flatus gas. The first three are quite familiar to most of us, except maybe the Mormons, whom I have been told, think sour cream comes from the the devil's tit. For those of you unfamiliar with the stinkier (that's right: stinkier) side of biology, one pint of flatus gas is how much an average individual expels in a day. That would be approximately thirty expulsions a day. Consider you are in a small office space with forty individuals working a full day: That would be 1200 expulsions, or 40 pints of gas!! Wow! Luckily, as required by law, venting systems are in place at most places to relieve you of about 89% of those gases. Without it, it would be like sitting in your garage with the car running - eventually causing severe sickness, then death.

My girlfriend, on the other hand, does not bend to the physical laws of nature. Instead, she gets earaches, and her left eye quivers. I tell her that she is doing herself harm by not letting nature take it's course, and she says, "I don't know what the fuck you are talking about." I tell her that most other women run a lot of "errands", which is why some men find that they have way too much milk and six dozen eggs in their refrigerators, and she says, "Why the fuck would we want six dozen eggs! Look, Carl, I know what this is about. For your information I fart all the time, but mine smell like kittens." So I said, you could stop eating kittens if we had a lot of eggs. At this last comment she suppresses a smile, and probably some gas, and turns red in the face - I wonder to myself, is that from embarrassment, the gas, or the kittens...

At any rate, I love my little Chernobyl, but I don't want a bug eyed, deaf, and crippled girlfriend, so I decided to take her to a psychiatrist...who happened to be a female. After explaining to the "doctor" what the issue was, taking great care to divulge all necessary science concerning the physical dangers of my girlfriend's issue with flatulence, she looked nervously about, then directed her gaze at me - looking me directly in the chin, in fact, and said, "What the fuck are you talking about?" It goes without saying that my chin was quite upset with the outcome, and I was, too. However, I would be lying to myself, and my chin (ok, I'll stop) if I said I didn't half expect that outcome. So then, my fucking girlfriend is a ticking time bomb, but apparently female code prohibits anyone of her kind to acknowledge it, regardless of the fact that she has become a danger to herself and others. Even though I stopped smoking, it's still a parlous living arrangement. I will just need to face the fact that I am going to die someday... in the most unpleasant fashion.