Dear darling husband,
Where do I even start? As a little girl, I imagined a prince charming who would sweep me off my feet. And ever since we met 15 years ago, you have been that knight in shining armor. With your infectious laugh, captivating blue eyes, and that charmingly immature sense of humor, I was completely smitten. When you fell for me, I thought I hit the jackpot!
You’ve always been my ideal partner: dedicated, entertaining, and possessing a heart of gold. In those early days, your odor was as delightful as freshly bloomed roses. Okay, maybe I can’t fully vouch for that since we didn’t share bodily functions back then, but surely nothing unpleasant could emerge from your handsome frame, right?
Fast forward a decade, and I’m happy to report that my feelings remain unchanged. Your laughter still fills my heart with joy, and your juvenile jokes keep me chuckling. Thanks to products like Poo-Pourri, your “business” can literally smell like flowers. I feel incredibly fortunate to be your partner.
However…
Let’s get real for a moment and address the proverbial elephant in the room (and no, I’m not talking about a cute, cuddly one). When I wished for a partner who would make every day feel magical, I certainly didn’t mean it in a literal sense. I never envisioned that my perfect man could unleash such a series of noxious gas attacks that would send me running for cover!
Oh, those farts, my love. With all my heart, I adore you, but goodness gracious—they are a hazard! When I pledged “until death do us part,” I meant it. Yet, I might not last long if you Dutch-oven me “accidentally” one more time! I’m convinced whatever you consume during dinner returns to haunt me in the most unpleasant ways. Breathing has become a challenge. You want me to keep breathing, right?
I’m a resilient woman; I’ve proven that by bringing our kids into the world like a warrior. But I am reaching my breaking point. This relentless flatulence has brought me to my knees—literally, not in the way you might think.
Have you noticed the lack of that particular intimacy lately? Let’s break it down: there’s no way I’m putting myself in the line of fire. Until we resolve this dis-ass-ter, your “danger zone” is officially off-limits. Sorry, my dear, but I’m not risking it!
Perhaps my approach seems a bit harsh. Please remember, I love you! Just as I promised, I’m here for you through thick and thin. And this situation definitely qualifies as a “thin” moment (the sickest kind of thin).
So here’s the bottom line: I’m not going anywhere, but we need to tackle this together. First things first—what are you eating, darling? I know our pantry’s contents and prepare your meals, so you must be sneaking in some secret snacks. Are you indulging in pickled dog turds? Just kidding!
But honestly, if I’m eating the same meals as you and my body is not reacting that way, maybe it’s time to consider a doctor’s visit? It’s entirely possible something is amiss within you. Could molten lava intestines be a real condition? We should investigate. We can even check in under amusing aliases like Clara Stinker or Benjamin Browncloud—imagine the fun!
I’m not trying to hurt your feelings; I just hoped we could clear the air—literally. That Poo-Pourri can only do so much, my love.
Love,
Me.