I am not sure what Farmer H had for lunch yesterday. But it did not agree with me. To hear him tell it, he spends his Friday lunch hour shopping at the Goodwill store for treasures. Just yesterday, he got a tray to hang on the wall, three salt-and-pepper shaker sets, and something I can't remember. All for the economical sum of $4.00. It would have added up to $5.50, but the woman was either numerically challenged, or liked what she saw, and gave Farmer H a 27 % discount.
Anyhoo...he made no mention of the edible part of lunch. But whatever it was, it gave him a bad case of the vapors. Which conveniently escaped during the overnight hours from between his buttocks. It's a wonder I was not asphyxiated before dawn. No sooner would I drift off to slumberland than I would be awakened by a colossal RRRRIIIIIIIPPPPP. And a contented sigh from Farmer H.
I tried breathing though my mouth. Putting a pillow over my face. Holding my breath. Don't even suggest putting the quilt over my head. That's Dutch oven territory. Suicide, almost.
I would not so much say that it smelled like something crawled up inside Farmer H and died as I would say it crawled up inside Farmer H, vomited, pooped itself, was murdered by a rogue platoon of corn kernels, left to rot for several days, rubbed with a durian sliced in half, marinated in skunk spray, placed in a clay crock and buried on a sunny beach to ferment for two weeks, scraped into a Tupperware container and locked in a broken-down Le Car in a developing country near the equator for one month, and then opened to outgas in Farmer H's intestines last night.
I am searching online in an effort to purchase a military-grade gas mask from a Doomsday Prepper.