On Sunday morning, I had the urge to open all of the windows and clean the kitchen. My manic cleaning binges are few and far between, so it’s best just to give me a box of steel wool and stay the hell out of my way for a few hours. As I was organizing the out-of-control recycling situation, Husband dared to walk in:
Me: Hey, let’s concentrate all of the empty beer bottles over here instead of piled up on the windowsill like we’re a couple of college kids.
Him: (No response.)
Me: Is that a yes?
Him: (Clasps hands together, squeezing, to make an unmistakable farting sound)
Me: What was that?
Him: This is how I say ‘yes’ from now on. (Repeats farting sound)
Him: One for yes, two for no. (Demonstrates the two-fart signal)
Me: I’m sorry, but I’m not going to agree to a fart-based communication system.
Him: Why not?
Me: Do I even need to answer that?
Him: I don’t like that you don’t respect my way of expressing myself.
Me: Can we pleeeeaaase act like adults?
Him: (fart! fart!)
Of course we can’t.