Maybe as Funny as Sharting

There’s some really random shit that can set me off into giggle fits. Once upon a time, it was the words ‘desk,’ ‘slimy’ and ‘chicken.’

Desk and slimy just aren’t funny anymore, but chickens are ALWAYS funny.

Anyway. That tidbit is vaguely connected to the fact that, the longer I’m married to Chris, the funnier I find him — and not always in the ways he intends. He’s the master of awful puns and tasteless jokes, but those generally just make me groan.

It’s when he’s being totally serious that he says something unintentionally hilarious to set me off. Here is the latest comedy in the ongoing theater of our married life, as told in two parts:

Part I

Salad dressing. Not funny? Not normally. But sometimes, salad dressing is piss-in-my-pants hilarious.

Specifically, this incident:

My husband was getting amorous and I was feeling receptive. It was all sweet and romantic and junk. As I snuggled my face into his shirt, I smelled salad dressing. The smell made me wonder why the hell he would smell like a bottle of vinaigrette, and my God, when was the last time he showered?, and maybe we needed a stronger detergent, and you know, there’s always a kid in school that smells like glue so surely there’s  kid that always smells like spoiled salad dressing. And suddenly my husband was that kid. I pictured him sitting in the corner of a 1st-grade classroom with thick glasses and too-short shorts, reading a book about dinosaurs while intermittently sniffing a bottle of Elmer’s glue and obliviously passing gas, all while smelling like a bottle of expired Wish-Bone House Italian.

As he moved to feel me up, I collapsed into silent laughter on the floor, unable to express why I couldn’t go on with our romantic rendezvous. How could I possible have sex with a guy who farts alone in a corner and smells like salad dressing???

Now can you see why this is funny? My husband is the kid in school who smells like…..Oh Jesus H., whatever. It’s funny. This person would agree with me.

Part II

I think everyone who uses predictive text messaging can understand this one. You try to type “Be home soon,” but the auto-corrector changes it to “You’re a lazy piece of shit and I want a divorce.” Or something like that.

Anyway, I was waiting for a doctor’s appointment and texting with Chris to pass the time. The receptionist was being a bitch and asking for my confirmation number, which I didn’t have because who the fuck actually writes down confirmation numbers anyway, let alone keeps them on hand in case anyone should ever ask for it?

Since the receptionist was clearly incompetent, I texted Chris and asked him to check my email for the confirmation message so I could throw it in the receptionist’s face and be all “BOOYAH!!!”

Me: “are you able to get to a computer right now?”

Him: “Yes.”

Me: “nm. these idiots said i didn’t have an appt but they ‘found’ it. stupid.”

Me, two minutes later when it became apparent that they  had no intention of keeping to my appointment time: “okay, wtf. can you look on my screen and go to my gmail? one of the most recent msgs is a confirmation from the doc.”

Him: “I can’t. I’m sitting in the toilet.”

Him: “on, rather.”

I started snickering. Okay, not just snickering — I burst into hysterical, tear-inducing laughter. Because now my husband was not only the smelly salad dressing kid, but he was the smelly salad dressing kid who fell into the toilet at school and had to walk around with toilet-water-soaked pants the rest of the day while all the other kids made fun of him.

I literally could not control the laughter. I covered my mouth and tried to take deep breaths, but that just made me laugh harder. I started to perspire. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. Sweat dripped down my back and forehead. I could not stop.

People were starting to stare, so I got up and walked into the hallway, thinking a change of scenery would stop the laughter. But that just drew more attention to me. The nurses started asking, “Are you okay?” and “Are you laughing or crying?” I was laughing so hard that I just waved them away — I couldn’t even respond. Every time I tried to sit back down, it would start all over again. Finally, I had to shut myself into a bathroom to get the fit out of my system and wipe up the sweat and tears.

Chris will read this and shake his head. Whatever. It’s hilarious.

At least as hilarious as chickens. Or sharting. Or sharting chickens.

Oh Jesus, I think I need to change my pants.