We’re at the ballgame watching the Mariner’s against the Cincinnati Reds in celebration of Double B’s birthday and Father’s Day. Mr. Darcy grabs himself a soda and some beloved pistachios. We’re sitting there, in the cold gray amongst kids shoving hot dogs and cotton candy and assorted horrible-for-you foods into their gullets, munching on nuts and pretending to know what’s going on down on the field.
After a while I notice out of the corner of my eye that Mr. Darcy hasn’t dropped any shells so I inquire, “Hey, where are your shells?” He replied in a matter of fact manner, “They are in my pocket.” So I said, “Why aren’t you dropping them on the ground?” as I pointed to the cement beneath our feet now littered with my pistachio shells. He responded incredulously, “Are you a savage?”
Why yes. Yes I think I am.
We’re sitting on the couch after dinner and I randomly announce, “I think my belly button smells” as I stick my finger in it and sniff it.
He responds, “Let me smell it” and grabs my hand pulling it to his nose.
After a whiff he says with a shrug, “It doesn’t smell bad.”
We’re lying in bed, attempting to fall asleep when Mr. Darcy lets one rip.
Charmed I say, “Did you just shart?”
Laughing he says, “I have never heard that before. What’s a shart?”
“It’s when you fart and shit your pants a little. I am surprised you don’t know this given how much you fart.”
“I did not shart, thankyouverymuch.”
“It kinda sounded like it. Better check the sheets just in cases.”