Doing Our Bit to Usher (Blast) in a Mini Ice Age

If Trica, (Not a Finger) or as my mother keeps referring to her, Little One Finger, can make a reentry to her blog with talk of wet pants and urinary situations, then I'm going for a conversation about GAS. Not the kind we pump into our SUVs or smaller compact models, no, I'm talking about the sort of GAS that comes from human combustion--or in our case, lately, perhaps human mal-combustion.

Allright. Like this has never happened to YOU. Something tells me though, it hasn't happened on the scale of magnitude as has been happening in our house. I'm literally waiting to be contacted by NASA, or an ecological division of NASA, whoever monitors the holes in the ozone.

High fiber diet is not for sissies, let me tell you. I mean, some nostril hair is good, isn't it? It seems unhealthy to have a completely naked inside of the nose. Germs and whatnot can just zoom right in, straight to the old bloodstream. We have nostrils devoid of any follicle activity. It all has been singed away.

Broccoli, cauliflower, lentils, seeds, beans, nuts, apples, bananas, strawberries--and hummus in vast quantities. Vats of hummus are being consumed at our address. Aussie bites, too. Little tastey morsels of rolled oats, sunflower seeds, wheat flour, raisins, cranberries, almonds, and some secret ingredient that acts to blow up in the intestines. I know the higher altitude you exist at, the more compression or expansion--or something like that--I know all this--but we're only at just above 6K feet, here.

Now, in addition to clearing the ozone naturally, (cattle ranches are registering less emmissions, folks!) I am probably making matters worse because of needing to go to our little five & dime, Duckwalls, to buy a shopping cart full of Glade Air Freshener spray. In the office, I type in a few entries, reach for the Mango or Berry or Country Spice spray, and fog the room already fogged, wipe the moist dots from computer screen, with my sleeve, and continue typing.

We go to sleep groaning in agony, holding our bellies. Before we fall asleep we play Lawrence Welk and say, 'ah one and ah two and a three', and commence to break wind in concert, he takes the higher trumpet part, I take the tuba, then we switch. It's winter and I swear we've managed to blow four layers of covers right off the bed!

Okay, that's quite enough of this gassy reporting. Reporting. Yep.

This is the mandate: We either lay off the fiber or buy ourselves an island to move to.


And what do you say to this blog entry? Why, you sweetly say, "Thank you for sharing." And I reply in the famous words of Steve Martin: "Well, EXCUSE ME!" I'm so damn tired of saying, EXCUSE ME, PARDON ME, OH MY, SORRY, GO BACK TO SLEEP, IT'S NOT THE SWAT TEAM BUSTING DOWN THE DOOR.


March air will be much more pleasant. I promise.