Though I am better now, I was some sick this weekend. I ate something (oh! it could have been one of a thousand things I jam into my mouth during walks or at home—dustballs, bits of stick, leaves, Starbucks lids, tree bark, grass, elastic bands) and it was not passing. It was so bad I couldn't even eat on Friday.
On Saturday all I had in my intestines was the whatever and emptiness (ie: air; ie: gas). In French they have an expression for when someone is vigourous and enthusiastic: "Il pête le feu!" (He's farting fire!) I was vigourously and enthusiastically farting and though it was not fire if there had been an open flame around, the building's roof would have blown off. Though I find such smells delicious, as a rule, this one was so intense that ever I was getting a little queasy from what was blasting out of me. And I was cold! The Mooks had opened every window and door and were running a fan full tilt and still were gasping for air.
Then, during the evening walk, I got rid of the unrecognizable something and Mook A yelled at me as he cleaned it off the sidewalk, "I don't even want to look! I don't want to know what stupid thing you shoved into your stupid fucking face, idiot dog!" Mean, eh? (Though I do have a tendency to eat now, ask questions later.)
A funny historical face that's germane to the discussion. There's a cigarette company up here called Peter Jackson and back in the day when you could announce cigarettes on billboards, their ad-firm came up with the slogan, "I have Peter on the lips" and plastered it all over the city. However, the ad firm—a real bunch of demi-tards—translated the slogan into French as, "J'ai Peter aux lêvres" or "I farted on lips."
A peter on the lips can be some people's cuppa, but few want a fart there. But after how nastily Mook A treated me in my time of trouble, the next time I feel nuclear farts like the ones from this weekend coming on, I'm aiming straight for his lips.
I'll melt his fucking face off.
The Hunt
