MARRIAGE STINKS

The Unconscious Farting Virtuoso That is my Wife

And I, the maestro, will bring it to the world!

My wife farted so loudly in her sleep last night that I was both shocked and jealous.

The decibel level of this eruption dwarfed any previous gaseous outburst I’ve ever generated. Moreover, it had character and depth to it. There was much more going on than a simple expulsion of gas, but the hint of something substantial serving as the foundation — an inspiring stimulus of solid, or perhaps semi-solid, formulation roiling beneath, and within, the flatulous tones.

It sounded like a marching band with food poisoning falling down a flight of stairs.

I’ve found a new muse!

I’ve decided to capitalize on my wife’s new-found talent by sneaking an audio recorder into bed. With some skillful auto-tuning, I’m confident my wife’s farts can be made even more melodious and will appeal to a wide range of music lovers, both sophisticated in-ear like Bach fans and excruciatingly unrefined in-ear like Justin Bieber fans.

Work on my first opus has already begun.

It will either be called “Upon the Fields Doth the Vapors Gust” or “The Tooting Troubadour of Rumpmire’s End” and will tell the story of a lonely, traveling fartsmith from the village of Rumpmire’s End in search the world over for true love.

UPDATE: Unfortunately, it seems my wife’s gluteal outburst from the other night was nothing but a one-off. She has yet to produce any further outputs, which, needless to say, has put a damper on my plans for musical greatness. My muse! Why have you abandoned me?!

I have attempted to replicate her nocturnal reports myself, but cannot. No amount of auto-tuning has been able to lift my farts to the angelic heights as those which leapt from my wife’s posterior to tickle my ears just a few nights ago.

I fear I must take drastic measures and spike her evening tea with an entire can of Ranch Style Beans with “Real Western Flavor” as they so boldly claim.

Wish me luck.

UPDATE #2: It worked! Last night, I enjoyed a chorus of siren songs from the murky depths of my wife’s viscera!

Once again, she sounds like a dump truck full of rotten pumpkins careening off a highway overpass.

Now, off to Costco for a pallet of Ranch Style Beans and musical tablature paper. The troubadour’s vapors shall gust o’er Rumpmire’s End once again!

Here’s another chunk of literary stupidity you might enjoy…