Just Call Me "Gaseous Clay"

Go ahead- I won't be offended, feel free to call me "Gaseous Clay"- 'cause like Mohammed Ali and the LL Cool J song that's playing in my head as I type- "Momma said knock you out! I'm gonna knock you out"- with my gas that is!  Forget the pig farms in Missouri that are polluting the air with methane. I'm a one-woman toxic fume disaster! I am shocked the EPA hasn't shut my gastrointestinal system down. I literally feel like that gross little Garbage Pail Kid my brother used to collect when he was an equally disgusting little boy. Right now, I'm the exact opposite of the dainty Southern lady I was raised to be. 

I am the poster girl for the anti-debutante movement. I belch & pass gas like a frat boy on spring break except I'm not met with high-fives from my hubby- just looks of disbelief. It's unreal for me too! I thought men farted a lot- I became more privy to that after my husband and I moved in together. It's not even that they fart that much more than women they just seem to do it with such reckless abandon! I used to think- if were possible my husband, CJ's, flatulence could power all the electricity in our home. And if that were the case then Yours Truly could supply the energy for a small village at this point. No lie. What's sad is I can't even blame it on our dog. Speaking of which, God help our 7-lb. Chihuahua who still has the nerve to get under the covers with us at night. I love animals- ALL animals, but I'm pretty sure dutch-ovening a Chihuahua is considered abuse. It wouldn't surprise me if at any moment the K-9 unit from the dog police show on Animal Planet busts in the doors to our place to arrest me. I say: Bring It! Just be sure to wear your protective gas masks. The sign "Enter at Your Own Risk"- is not just a courtesy but an authentic warning.