Too much information

It seems not only artists suffer pursuing their passions. We have a wonderful local brewery that makes a very hoppy pale ale called "Hopyard". It's a bracing, full-bodied brew whose strength of taste is only surpassed by its alcohol strength; I think it's something like 7 or 8 percent, which practically makes it an honorary wine. The only drawback to it (provided you don't have more than two and thus start hallucinating and/or endangering others on the drive home) is that it regularly gives you a mind-bending and colon-stretching attack of gas. (Through careful inquiry, I've discovered this is a universal occurrence for imbibers of this particular spirit.)

Deep in the middle of one night, after having a couple, I farted so hard and loud that I awoke both my wife and myself. I'm sure proctologists in the 5-county area felt a disturbance in the Force.

"Geez," she said, "are you OK?"

"I think so," I replied, "but I think the dog may have hurt himself fleeing down the stairs." (We sometimes call him "Courage" after the cartoon dog of the same name, because his highly developed flight response is frequent and comical. He typically sleeps under the foot of our bed.)

The dog, who was sitting in the middle of the downstairs living room, still cautiously looking up at our bedroom doorway, wagged his tail sheepishly when I checked on him, as if to say, "I didn't think it was the 4th of July already."

"I thought one of the dressers had fallen over," said my wife when I got back to bed, "that was impressive."

She rolled over and drifted off immediately. As I went back to sleep, I reflected on how fortunate I am that I'm married to a woman who expresses wonder rather than anger at unintentional extreme gastronomical events.

TLD: Both she and I agree, however, that Dooce has the best fart story ever.