F is for Far--, Uh, Flatulence

We ate dinner at a rinky dink Mexican restaurant near us (quick and cheap). The place wasn't terribly busy, and the only cashier was in the back somewhere and didn't realize an older gentleman was waiting at the register to pay, about ten feet away from our table. As we were eating (I had the carne asada tacos and picked off the onions, which isn't easy), and as I was telling a story about my day at preschool, the man waiting by the counter emitted a massive, reverberating fart which lasted at least ten seconds. And he stood there, leaning against the counter by the register, as though nothing were happening at all, throughout his entire organ recital. 

I tried to keep telling my story, but a giggle escaped. Then another and another. My daughter was snickering, too. My husband, never batting an eyelash, kept eating. 

"Do you know why we're laughing?" I asked him.

 He nodded as he kept eating. I resumed my story, but my inner 11 year old boy caused me to crumple again into a fit of giggles a short time later, setting my daughter off as well. My husband continued to eat.

The cashier finally came out and the man paid his bill and left. No sooner was he out the door than my daughter and I resumed our laughter, tears streaming. My husband, still eating, said, "Not as silent as he thought it was going to be." My daughter's mouth dropped open as she turned to her dad and said, "What do you mean, HE thought it was going to be? I thought YOU did it!" 

My husband, looking aghast that she would even suggest it, said, "I wouldn't do something like that in PUBLIC!"

Sighing, my daughter wiped her eyes and picked up her fork to resume eating, saying, "It was a lot funnier when I thought DAD was the one who farted."

And we finished eating, grateful that the dining room was so full of smoke from either the fajitas or a kitchen grease fire that we were not able to detect any residual effects from that tremendous, um, release.