Throwing Poo

Ever since we returned from vacation, I have had an ongoing, putrid case of flatulence the reliability of which is only matched by its sheer rank.  While I would never argue that my “regular” farts don’t stink, these post-cruise prison breaks have been particularly pointed (yes, I know, alliteration is for queers).  Worse, they linger much, much longer than a respectable fart should, sticking in the air like rancid, beefy Napalm.   I’m thinking of calling them my Mike Huckabee farts.

While this affliction might sound like fun to many of you – just another weapon in the arsenal of inappropriate behaviors you unleash on your fellow Wal-Mart shoppers every weekend – I am becoming concerned.  It’s been nearly three weeks.  The cats have shunned me, I’ve been banned from Continental First Class, my wife wears a surgical mask to bed, and I can barely afford to keep fresh batteries in our overworked smoke alarms.    

But what could it be?  Did I contract a rare illness from a ship toilet seat (besides the two cases of crabs and ongoing bouts with chlamydia)?  Did a Dominican Farting Weevil burrowed inside my colon during our hiking trip through the rain forest?  Or am I unconsciously assimilating the common characteristics of the cruising crowd, like clipping coupons, complaining about noise and criticizing my children (so I’m queer, so what)? 

Anyway, if it doesn’t go away in the next week or so, I’m going to go see my doctor.  That will mean multiple humiliations like a stool sample, vivid descriptions of my air biscuit blitzkrieg, and a digit or two (if I’m lucky) in my dung button.  Last time I saw her, she had to fumble with one of my balls to rule out cancer.  Not sure how I’ll top this one. 

Is it too late in life to sprout a conjoined hermaphrodite twin with Tourette Syndrome?

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Celebrity’s motto is that they will treat you like a celebrity, which is entirely appropriate for me as I write a blog.  Well, at least twice during the course of the week the housekeeping staff made eye contact with me.  Exactly what celebrity are they treating me like?  Gary Burghoff?  Also, when I tried to send the little brown man who was polishing our toilet bowl out to get me some coke, he acted as if that was not part of his job.  Treated like a celebrity?  I think not.

On several occasions, after promptly arriving for dinner (properly pressed and dressed, of course) we waited up to five minutes before our wine steward, a trained foreign monkey without the brains or decency to speak English to us without an accent,  arrived at our table prepared too fetch our choice of vintage.  Savages in sailor suits do not sommeliers make, Celebrity.

On Thursday morning, there were three people in line ahead of me at the omelet station on the starboard side of the breakfast dining room. Three people! A virtual fucking bread line! The only explanation I could come up with was that the theme of the day was celebrating life in the Eastern Block.  Anyway, to get into the spirit of things, I got drunk on vodka and kicked an old woman in the groin with a pair of standard issue boots.  I must admit, it made me feel a little better about the omelet thing.  

During our morning constitutionals, it was often quite windy on the Promenade Deck where the quarter mile walking track was located.  This is simply unacceptable.  If I was the type of person who liked having his hair mussed, I’d spend my vacations chasing tornadoes with deranged hayseeds in Kansas.  But I’m not, as evidenced by my possession of a luxury cruise ticket.  So encase the ship in some fucking Plexiglas already.   

The day we arrived in Dominica, it was Carnivale, a savage bastardization of our traditional Fat Tuesday celebration in America created by the fabulous chain of daiquiri bars of the same name.  Even though a giant ship of fat, freshly-scrubbed white people with designer fanny-packs full of real American money to trade for their local wares had just arrived at their shabby little port, the Dominicans saw fit to ignore us and continue dancing in the streets, even if it meant partially blocking our guided tour’s path to next t-shirt vendor.  It made me so mad that I spent my afternoon tracking down that old woman so I could kick her in the cunt again.

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