Sh!tstorm

Today, my son and I have both had really bad gas. Because of it, I have been able to stand near the baby, expel the foul air, and blame it on him. By some miracle of nature, my body has adapted to match his, so that it’s impossible to tell our flatulence apart. This means that my wife has accepted the flatulence as his without question. At least until I accidentally did it from across the room and was too far away to pass it off as his. My wife didn’t accept my theory that he did it by ventriloquism, so I was forced to lose my credibility as she started to question every other incident today.

But in the end, my son got the last laugh, because he bottled up his poop for the entire day and let it out in one hellacious sh!tstorm all over everything! His arms, legs, feet, back, and stomach...my wife’s pillow, pants, and shirt...my hands and arms...the changing pad cover...and the floor. And it reeked!!! A hundred times worse than anything I had blamed on him today. And as I violently tugged wet wipe after wet wipe out of the warmer, the feel and stench of drying feces clinging to the hairs of my arms; the cheeky, little bugger laughed at me! His first laugh, and this when he chose to reveal it.