you can't wait to text your buddy with the details of the epic, nine inch long dump you just took because you know she'll totally appreciate it, especially the clean-sweep factor.
She and I belch like men--I'm talking long, Coke-fueled, Elf-movie inspired trailers that drone on forevah, turn everything into a dirty that's-what-she-said reference and howl about flatulence.
We are the Queens of potty humor.
She's literally the only one of my friends who completely appreciates this totally low-ball side of my sense of humor. Hell, she's the one who awakened my love of this trailer-park behavior, much to Geo's chagrin I'm sure. The awkward, slightly disgusted reception I get from my card club gals after I let fly with a exceptional, resonant burp is a far cry from the applause I'm used to from Beets. It's like crickets in a room. Can you imagine if I told them the tale of this tremendous two-pound turd? I love them, but they don't get me.
Beets gets me.
You know, if someone would have told me 30 years ago that someday I'd be so comfortable with another human being that I'd share toilet stories and other intimate topics generally frowned upon in civilized society, I would have stuffed my delicate fingers (pinkies up) in my chaste ears and called you a big, fat, honking liar.
So what was her reaction when I texted her this morning with the astounding accomplishment of my most recent bodily function? One word: "Classic"
I'll belch to that.