A night at the clam bake.

oh hey, sup’?  been a little while.  Last night was a night of true inspiration.  So here goes…

Let’s start with a bit of history: Once upon a time, not too long ago, I lived with a nuclear engineer.  It had it’s moments… He’d explain various physics at times, which nurtured my inner geek.  But my most favorite explanation of his, was gas and how it seeks the path of least resistance.  His vivid description will forever be engrained in my memory… now that’s how you teach shit.  literally.

To this day I refer to his theory as:


I am going to summarize his theory on the “snowsuit effect”.  Essentially, when you fart, the gas will seek the “the path of least resistance”.  Last night’s pot roast figures, ‘why share my essence with this here butt padding, let’s go for the kill’.  Coincidentally, this applies to other forms of matter, but let’s not get sidetracked with tomfoolery.  Hence, ergo and forsooth, depending on the potency of last night’s dinner, that bad larry is coming out your only breathing hole and knocking your ass out.  I’ve provided an illustration to demonstrate this theory:


Now that we have dispensed with that explanation, onto the next, shall we?  The clambake.  What is this black magic of which you speak?  I have provided the quintessential urban dictionary definition for you to review and digest:


Now that I have provided you with these two concepts,  I will continue onto last night’s unfortunate events.  Here we go:

Last night my husband and I climb into bed, and I cuddle up behind him puttin’ on my cuddling moves, aka. let’s make some bacon and get to porkin’.   Only I should caveat that ordinarily, we use separate blankets to prevent hogging, and excessive blanket tugging.  Yesterday, I dangerously veered from our standard of procedure and heaved the same cover over the two of us and began with my classic “fiddling with the noodle” move.

What happened next, will forever be seared into my mind… and nose hairs.  I swear to God it was an indescribable evil that wafted from hell fire brimstone.  I forgot myself and the dreaded “Snowsuit effect” and I released what I thought would be a silent inconspicous mousey fart.   This wasn’t as urban dictionary described, a giggle inducing queef type fare. Oh no… no, no, no, if I had to give it an adequate description… it was akin to the stench of a thousand dejected Big Macs basking in the July sun. ::gag::

I began to secretly waft the covers behind me, only it was too late, the dreaded snowsuit effect had already laid it’s path of vengeance and crept toward both our faces.   Frantically I thought, ‘Oh Good God, that’s awful.  I hope he doesn’t smell that.’  Then the unthinkable happened.

He asked, “Did you just fart?”


Him, “Yeah, you did!”

Me, “I’m sorry!!  I still wanna cuddle!  I didn’t mean to.”

Me: ::I was still trying to go in with guns hot::

Him, “Screw you!”

Me, “Awwwww, no fair.”

Him, “Gross.”

Me:  ::Turns over falls asleep, yet continues to intermittently giggle through the night::

So there you have it… my night at the clam bake.  Both dreadful and yet oddly hilarious.  So this morning I sent the hubby the following message:


Then I thought, no that was pretty bad, I should make him a for real apology card.  So I did that:


So that wraps it up kids, the moral of the story?  Be wary of the dreaded clambake.  That’s my holiday tip.  You’re welcome.  And on that note, I will leave you with this:


PS. I wished for Beano.  A lifetime supply. ::gahhhd::

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7 Responses to A night at the clam bake.

  1. Mike says:

    Isn’t a queef a pussy fart? No matter…another tome for the ages. Thanks B!!!!!!

  2. you are truly one of a kind my friend!!!! Thanks for making me smile to day……

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