Regifting a Dutch Oven

Seems like only yesterday that I was touting the joys of my school fundraiser purchase of chocolate-cherry popcorn. Oh. That's right. It WAS only yesterday.

Thanks to my blog buddy, Linda, I now know that my decadent treat not only shoots my blood sugar into the stratosphere, but also blows up my belly like flat tire connected to an air compressor. Though in my case, it was more like a spare tire. I might have figured out the etiology by myself. But Linda shortened my investigation.

When I arose from my recliner shortly before midnight, having fallen into a low-blood-sugar coma after the initial spike, I felt something was amiss. There was a rumbling in my tummy. Not a hunger rumble. Lower. In the vicinity of my large intestine. #2 Colon Avenue, to be precise. The contents were really starting to percolate. Much like chicken nuggets from a school cafeteria lunch, trying to peck their way out by fifth hour. I suppose the deadly gases had been unable to escape due to the pressure of my ample posterior upon the cushion of my recliner. A situation which was remedied upon standing. Gases rushed forth like air from a near-to-bursting balloon. I'm surprised that I did not sail willy-nilly about the basement, corkscrewing, slamming off walls and ceiling until I was completely deflated.

I ran through a quick meal inventory. No beans, no broccoli, no burritos, no cabbage, no cauliflower, no chili. Yes, I'm one of those special people who think in alphabetical order. Since I had not consumed any such foods, I was at a loss as to where my emanations originated. But this morning, Linda put my question to rest.

You all know Val is not one to be pessimistic. A regular ray of sunshine is she. When life gives her lemons, does she not make lemonade? When the universe conspires against her, does she not use the atrocities to regale readers with witty blog posts? Rest assured, Val's digestive system emissions will not go to waste.

I plan to exact revenge on Hick by releasing the excess gas at night, under the quilt which he tucks so tightly around his head while insisting that his breather gives him plenty of oxygen from outside his cocoon. Hick does not realize that several times per night, his breathing mask is shoved asunder. I know. Because I hear the whistle of escaping air. We'll see how long it takes him to sputter awake.

Hick has underestimated my intestinal fartitude for far too long. Let the games begin.