I was watching a really good porn documentray last night and...no, wait...I think it was...yeah, no, it wasn't a documentary, it was just a porn, yeah, just a porn.
Anyway, it was really good. Definately one to own. I watched it a few times and I was up really late, so I got up late this morning so I don't have time to blog anything for today. So my daughter, Jaffe, said she'd do a posting for me.
Gotta run! Bye Funny Or Die!
My name is Jaffe.
I wanna talk about my dad.
I love my dad. He's the best dad on the planet.
But I'm worried about him. He farts so much.
The part that worries me though, is that he doesn't think he does. And he also doesn't think they smell.
My mom gags and plugs her nose and says, "Jesus, Drew!" when he leans on one cheek and squeezes out a super loud fart after dinner. But dad always says, "Don't play games. Mine don't smell."
But I'm here to testify - they smell.
You're pushing air out your bum hole past a backlog* of poo, so yes, dad, it smells. Like a plate of deviled eggs that were left out in the sun at the Easter Bunny Hop BBQ.
He's delusional. He read in a book the other night that it's common and normal to fart 30 times a day and exclaimed, "Ah ha!" triumphantly, as if his behavior was reasonable and defensible.
But the sad part is daddy farts 30 times AN HOUR! He just doesn't know it. I really believe that. I truly think he has no idea how much he farts and what an awesome problem it is and if he doesn't get help now then maybe mom and I won't be around for his fortieth birthday.
Not because we've left him but because one of his toxic farts has finally killed us.
If you see my dad please tell him not to kill me and my mommy.
* Back•log n
1. a quantity of unfinished business that has built up over a period of time and must be dealt with before progress can be made