Hallelujah! Someone has finally made an innovative product I can use. It is one of those made for TV deals, you know, not sold in stores, act now and we will throw in a set of Ginsu knives, A Grease Bullet, and a Slap Chop, all you have to do is pay shipping and handling? I am not mocking the “As seen on TV” people; they are the ones who brought us the Sham-Wow, the Snuggie, the Bumpit and the quasi-famous Aqua Globe. Well, get ready folks because this is their best invention yet: the Better Marriage Blanket.
What is it you ask? Well, according to their website it “completely and quickly absorbs the odor of flatulence.” That is right people, it de-stinks farts. Think of it like the Snuggie, only it is the odor control version. Evidently it “looks and feels like a soft warm comforter” but actually contains a layer of activated carbon fabric that absorbs the odor of your loved one, so that the only thing you smell is clean fresh air. They are calling this “a real solution to a very real problem” and I say Amen people! Finally, someone knows what I want, to breathe unsoiled, unsullied atmosphere.
If this thing works, and let’s pray that it does, it will essentially eliminate those accusatory bedtime conversations:
“Did you toot?”
“No.”
“I think you did.”
“No.”
“Are you sure you didn’t?”
“Yes.”
“Well it sounds like you tooted, and it smells like you tooted and it tastes like you tooted.”
“It was just a little one.”
My favorite part of the Better Marriage Blanket website is they say it makes a great gift. Yeah, the perfect gift for that special someone . . . that stinks. Is there someone in your life with frequent rectal rumblings, someone with recurrent disturbing aromas? Well, then it may be time for you to get them the Better Marriage Blanket. No more phantom smells, no more invisible elephants in the room, completely takes care of SBD’s (Silent but Deadlies) and leaves you free to breathe deeply.
I do have a couple of questions though:
1.) It only comes in white and beige—what, no brown?
2.) What is the return policy like?
3.) Will it absorb sound too?
4.) If I cover his face with it, will it also take care of bad breath?
5.) Can you order different scent strength blockages?
6.) How much of the blanket do you have to stuff in each orifice to stop the odor?
7.) Can the blanket be recycled once it is, ummm, full? If so, how and why?
8.) Do they offer rush delivery?
If word gets out that these blankets really work, these things will sell themselves. I am planning on buying mine soon, because if there is a run on them, and they work as advertised, the fart blanket people will be able to raise the price to anything they want. Women all over the world will be handing over their first born just to have a chance at breathing untainted oxygen. It will become like hemorrhoid cream, you won’t have to tell people what it’s for or how much it costs, just where they can get it.
I don’t have mine yet, but you can bet I will be buying one of these amazing poop particle filters very soon. And, maybe it is just because I am so forward thinking, but I can see all sorts of new products along this same line. Car seat covers, Lazy-Boy covers, couch covers, toilet seat covers, underwear, diapers, it could be a great benefit in nursing homes, for the homeless, my husband's den, the possibilities are endless! I am so excited about this thing I have been daydreaming about what the warning label might say:
This is not a toy. Intended for moderate gas only. Cannot be used as a flotation device. Do not use in conjunction with an electric blanket or other direct heat source. Do not use near open flame. Not intended for use by persons who have eaten any combination of the following: sardines, jalapeño peppers, chili, deviled eggs, haggis, hummus, bean dip, oysters, or prunes. This product was not tested on animals—unless you consider 40-year-old men with gastro-intestinal problems animals. It is a violation of federal law to remove this tag.
If you want to get your own Better Marriage Blanket, just visit their website, get yours while they last, before that burning in your eyes and nose becomes permanent. The marriage you save could be your own.
Showing posts with label Gas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gas. Show all posts
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Watch Out, She's Gonna Blow
Once when I was in 3rd grade I passed gas in class. Larry Campbell then followed me around the playground “farting” on his arm anytime I got within 10 feet of him. I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation, everyone kept telling me to ignore it, but I decided to go another way, instead I hit him over the head with a lunch tray. He pretty much stopped after that.
Passing gas is a taboo subject among women—we don’t do it and we don’t talk about it. Like most things that we are afraid of, we pretend it doesn’t exist. As mother’s we learn that kids do it and husbands do it, but we spend the next 18 years and 40 years, respectively, training them to stop. If we are successful, we load up on Beano and Gas-X and go back to pretending it doesn’t happen in the real world, even if we are faced with the stinky truth.
When I worked at a University I had one peer who would come into my office for various reasons related to the job, all the while tooting away like the noise and the smell were figments of my imagination. I was often so stunned by her, uh . . . performance that I could not concentrate on what she was saying. But, no matter how uncomfortable I was, I never said a word. I just smiled and went about my day. Well, I did hold my breath until she left, but other than that, it was business as usual.
Men handle bodily functions much differently, for one thing they are not scared of flatulence, well unless you cry while you are doing it, that scares them. I cannot even say ‘passing gas’ out loud. I stick with calling it gastrointestinal distress. Sure, it sounds like I am dying, but even death is more dignified than ‘breaking wind.’
I have found though, that in life, there are just some things you cannot always control and gas is one of them. When my husband wanted to marry me he sat down with my Mom and Dad and asked for their blessing. I was there mostly as moral support, quietly observing, until the unthinkable happened.
“Sir, I would like to ask your blessing to marry your daughter.”
“Thbbbbbbbbbbttttt.”
Yes, that is right, I cut the cheese. The whole room was silent, except for the unpleasantness that reverberated off of the naugahyde sofa. I could tell that no one knew how to proceed, so I stuck with the protocol and acted like nothing happened.
“You were saying . . . “
“Sir, I love your daughter and I would like to spend the rest of my life with her.”
“Thbbbbbbbbttttttt.”
It happened again! I was in uncharted territory, but I think everyone understood it was a stressful situation, so they kept on going.
“I promise to take care of her and love her.”
“Thbbbbbbbbttttttt. Bbbbbttt. Bbbbbbbttt.”
A third time! This was unprecedented. My fiancé had finally had enough. He turned and looked at me and very menacingly said, “Are you through?” From that moment on I clenched like I had never clenched before and we made it to the end of the conversation without incident.
I would like to say that I began to feel less insecure about flatulence, but sadly, no. Some things are harder to change than others. Once, when I was feeling particularly carefree, I decided to try something different. I was taking a walk and listening to ‘Funkytown’ on my Ipod. It was a gorgeous sunny morning and I was breathing in the fresh air, getting exercise and enjoying the music, I felt alive . . . and so did my intestines. I knew that my bowels were stirring, but I was all alone, it was 5:30 in the morning and I thought it would be ok to relax and not worry about it. So as I listened to my music, I just kept walking and, well, um . . . you know.
Won’t you take me to Funkytown. Thbbbt. Won’t you take me tooooooo Funkytown. Thbbbbbbt. Won’t you take me to Funkytown. Thbbbbbt. Won’t you take me to Funkytown. Thbbt. Bbbbbtt.
Boy was I feeling good. Along with tooting up a storm I decided to start singing along. I am sure I sounded like a beached walrus doing a ritualistic mating call while suffering from a brain aneurism but I didn’t care. I could see my house and was as high as a kite as I headed for home. It was exhilarating. Until . . . two pillars of the community passed me on either side. They were out for their morning constitutional as well, and were now powerwalking past me. I was going to say good morning, but for once, my rear end and my mouth were silent. Besides, I couldn’t blame them for wanting to get around me as quickly as possible; I wouldn’t want to be downwind either.
From that day forward I have vowed to stick with the plan—passing gas is a myth, it doesn’t exist, and believe me, I don’t even want to talk about it.
Passing gas is a taboo subject among women—we don’t do it and we don’t talk about it. Like most things that we are afraid of, we pretend it doesn’t exist. As mother’s we learn that kids do it and husbands do it, but we spend the next 18 years and 40 years, respectively, training them to stop. If we are successful, we load up on Beano and Gas-X and go back to pretending it doesn’t happen in the real world, even if we are faced with the stinky truth.
When I worked at a University I had one peer who would come into my office for various reasons related to the job, all the while tooting away like the noise and the smell were figments of my imagination. I was often so stunned by her, uh . . . performance that I could not concentrate on what she was saying. But, no matter how uncomfortable I was, I never said a word. I just smiled and went about my day. Well, I did hold my breath until she left, but other than that, it was business as usual.
Men handle bodily functions much differently, for one thing they are not scared of flatulence, well unless you cry while you are doing it, that scares them. I cannot even say ‘passing gas’ out loud. I stick with calling it gastrointestinal distress. Sure, it sounds like I am dying, but even death is more dignified than ‘breaking wind.’
I have found though, that in life, there are just some things you cannot always control and gas is one of them. When my husband wanted to marry me he sat down with my Mom and Dad and asked for their blessing. I was there mostly as moral support, quietly observing, until the unthinkable happened.
“Sir, I would like to ask your blessing to marry your daughter.”
“Thbbbbbbbbbbttttt.”
Yes, that is right, I cut the cheese. The whole room was silent, except for the unpleasantness that reverberated off of the naugahyde sofa. I could tell that no one knew how to proceed, so I stuck with the protocol and acted like nothing happened.
“You were saying . . . “
“Sir, I love your daughter and I would like to spend the rest of my life with her.”
“Thbbbbbbbbttttttt.”
It happened again! I was in uncharted territory, but I think everyone understood it was a stressful situation, so they kept on going.
“I promise to take care of her and love her.”
“Thbbbbbbbbttttttt. Bbbbbttt. Bbbbbbbttt.”
A third time! This was unprecedented. My fiancé had finally had enough. He turned and looked at me and very menacingly said, “Are you through?” From that moment on I clenched like I had never clenched before and we made it to the end of the conversation without incident.
I would like to say that I began to feel less insecure about flatulence, but sadly, no. Some things are harder to change than others. Once, when I was feeling particularly carefree, I decided to try something different. I was taking a walk and listening to ‘Funkytown’ on my Ipod. It was a gorgeous sunny morning and I was breathing in the fresh air, getting exercise and enjoying the music, I felt alive . . . and so did my intestines. I knew that my bowels were stirring, but I was all alone, it was 5:30 in the morning and I thought it would be ok to relax and not worry about it. So as I listened to my music, I just kept walking and, well, um . . . you know.
Won’t you take me to Funkytown. Thbbbt. Won’t you take me tooooooo Funkytown. Thbbbbbbt. Won’t you take me to Funkytown. Thbbbbbt. Won’t you take me to Funkytown. Thbbt. Bbbbbtt.
Boy was I feeling good. Along with tooting up a storm I decided to start singing along. I am sure I sounded like a beached walrus doing a ritualistic mating call while suffering from a brain aneurism but I didn’t care. I could see my house and was as high as a kite as I headed for home. It was exhilarating. Until . . . two pillars of the community passed me on either side. They were out for their morning constitutional as well, and were now powerwalking past me. I was going to say good morning, but for once, my rear end and my mouth were silent. Besides, I couldn’t blame them for wanting to get around me as quickly as possible; I wouldn’t want to be downwind either.
From that day forward I have vowed to stick with the plan—passing gas is a myth, it doesn’t exist, and believe me, I don’t even want to talk about it.
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