rooty toot toot

My Darling B has discovered an amazing product: a non-dairy ice cream that makes me fart more than real dairy does. In fact, my gut may have turned last night’s approximately 8-ounce serving completely into more gas than one human being would ever produce in a 24-hour period under normal conditions. Or even under abnormal conditions, like if you binged on refried beans. I’ve kept our bedroom ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house all night. I’m pretty sure rocket engines don’t convert fuel with this kind of efficiency.

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