Remember how I was convinced that my apartment was a girl because the furniture kept creaking whenever I walked by convincing me that I had instantaneously gained a kajillion pounds? Yeah. I am so having an "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" moment, because every where I go in the house, there are farting sounds. Walking down the hall? Farting sounds. Sitting in mom's computer chair? Farting sounds. Steps? Farting sounds. Rubber soled shoes? Farting sounds. It's worse than one of those awkward movie moments. Personally, I'd rather be deemed overweight than have a flatulence problem.
I went to school with a kid, Jim Brew. He was the master. Lord's prayer? He could keep us amused the entire time poor Mrs. Van Andel was trying to speak over his ummm "accompaniment". Abe Lincoln? He could do the entire emanicipation proclamation syllable by syllable. I also feel it necessary to say that we prayed morning and after lunch, so I kid you not when I say this kid was full of hot air.
My point? CUT IT OUT, HOUSE! That's enough out of you! I know you're pissed off because Momma painted you mauve, but get over it, okay?
My grandma used to walk and fart. I'd always say, "Did you say something?". Her best response was was when she turned around and flipped me off.