I made a deeply regrettable mistake this weekend; I gave myself a dutch oven. I’m not talking about the red pot in my kitchen cupboard, either. I’m talking about the most nauseating stench you have ever experienced in your life. It was so offensive I wanted to check Michael’s pants to see if there was a rotting corpse in them!
Dutch Oven: The act of trapping a person under bed covers after releasing vile ass fumes.
I can’t believe I let my dutch oven guard down and paid the ultimate price, my memories. I don’t know how my sniffer is ever going to forgive me. How am I going to forget the foul odor that is now embedded in my nose hairs? I’m not even exaggerating! Michael is a big love your own smell type of person (weird) and he said it was bad. Ha!
Let me give you a better idea of why his intestines rot after a game night. Michael consumes at least half of the veggie tray BEFORE people arrive. Combine all of those vegetables with 10 beers and you have the recipe for a nuclear bomb. I should license the stench out for prisoner torture, screw Waterboarding.
How did I give myself a dutch oven? My house is very similar to the Arctic so I snuggled down into the blankets and BAM! I was smacked in the face by the brick wall that is his game night gas. It’s a good thing he didn’t show me this side of him before I started loving him. We lived together *GASP* before we got married and this was news to me down the road. What’s a girl supposed to do about it now?
I love you, babe, but man are your farts intense.