Just now, LMC and I had this conversation.
LMC: “You’re a nut.”
Me: “No. You’re a nut.”
LMC: “Nutty’s a nut.”
Me: “No, Nutty’s a squirrel. I’m a genius.”
LMC: “Because you’re wearing jeans?”
Me: “Yeah. I have a jean-y arse.”
She cracked up again. Honestly, she laughs at the littlest things.
So, I forgot to tell the funniest part of last night’s fart story.
After she finished laughing, she asked me, “Is that all you’ve got? Or is there something else up your sleeve?”
And I said, “That wasn’t up my sleeve, honey.”
Riotous laughter ensued yet again.
As a woman, I’m led to believe that I’m one of very few who think that farts are actually funny. I try to maintain decorum most of the time, but on the odd occasion, I can compete with the best of them.
I’m generally quite private about m such things but, when you’re holidaying in a caravan and in closer quarters than usual, such discretion is not always so achievable.
So tonight, LMC heard me let a fart go for only the second time ever.
She thought it was hysterical. Honestly, it was really nothing special, but she cracked up laughing until she had tears and her stomach hurt.
It’s good to know she’s so easily and cheaply entertained. We can sell the TV.
In the car on the way to town, I said,”It’s hot in here!”
He said, “No, it’s not.”
“It is!” I insisted.
“It’s only really warm in here. The sun’s been on the car.”
It’s summer in Australia, and I swear he’s part fish.