I make no apologies for liking to sleep. Depending on how you average it out, in my life I will spend about two hundred thousand hours looking at the back of my eye lids and dreaming happy dreams where I am the king of the world, and as a side job get paid to be a breast softness tester.
Before you get on me about wasting my life away sleeping, I'll defend my love of the pillow by stating my firm belief that I'm not wasting my life at all, I'm merely allowing myself more time in my alternate reality.
I digress (which is nothing new ... I am after all easily distracted) Ask Margaret ... "oooh shiny thing" ... what was I saying?)
Margaret doesn't stay over that often. I'm not sure how much of this is due to Norton's tendency to flush the toilet when he pees in the middle of the night, or the fact that night time is farty time. Margaret is one of those rare women who can burp like a bull frog, and laughs at knock knock jokes - one thing she doesn't do is fart.
I'll amend that, she farts. I'm sure she farts. One time at lunch, she stifled a sneeze and I'm sure I heard something that sounded like a balloon squeak - but I'm not sure. I would also bet a quarter that when she's sitting making doodie she farts ... but she doesn't fart for pleasure.
Me on the other hand, I enjoy a nice toot now and then. Heck, Norton who usually irritates the shit out of me just by being in the house while I'm home is an exceptionally fine farter. I'm not sure I've mentioned it, but his all time hero is Joseph Pujol. Norton may not have his skill, but the other day at dinner he pulled off the opening to Beethoven's 5th Symphony. I was really impressed but the lingering after burn hinted there was a little more substance to the last note than either of us was expecting. Margaret who was there was totally unimpressed, and she put to rest Norton's claim that she hits like a girl. The bruise on his shoulder lasted a good week.
I truly digress.
Margaret was over for the night, and we were having a nice cuddle and chatting about silly nonsense. I think the phrase I'm looking for is spooning. Yup, spooning. We were spooning, and to be honest I was doing a little grinding and making growly noises. I really thought I was turning her on. Because she was pushing back against me.
Turns out what she was doing was positioning.
In the history of great farts, what happened next wouldn't even qualify as a footnote. It was fairly unremarkable, except for the source. Margaret farted. It wasn't a girly thing. It reminded me of Norton's nefarious Beethoven movement.
What sealed the deal was Margaret flopping over onto her back grabbing the covers and pulling them over my head. She held them there for a long time.
A really long time.
Then she punched me in the arm, and dang it, it wasn't one of those girly hits. It'll leave a mark for sure. Then she rolled onto her side and resumed the cuddle.
The last thing she said before falling asleep was, "You tell anyone I'll deny it. And then I'll kill you."
In the morning I had to do the laundry.
No comments:
Post a Comment