The Grover blame game comes back to bite in the ass.

Sometimes a photo arouses a memory.  Just the photo, itself, alone, elicits a thought, something you’ve heard or experienced in the distant past.

This photo did that for me. It reminded me of an old joke, one of my favorites, one I’ve repeated so many times that my delivery has been perfected to an illustrious comic degree.



So the joke…I’ll throw a twist in and tell it in first person.


I was nervous as hell.

I had gone out with Emily on 3 dates but this was the first time I’d been to her house, and the first time I was to meet her parents. As happens when I get the jitters, my stomach begins to rumble and rebel. It’s been lifelong curse that when life calls upon my nerves of steel,  my stomach falls to gassy knots. It’s hard to feign dignity when my guts are scrunched up in imprisoned farts.

Anyways, I drove to Emily’s and as I walked up the sidewalk, my stomach began to rumble. As if on cue.  Horribly.  I thought about running back and looking for a public restroom but I was late so I continued to the door.

I knocked, uneasily, and was dismayed when a man in his 50’s answered the door.

“Ed?” he asked simply.

“Yes, I’m Ed. You must be Mr. Cromwell I replied.

He nodded and waved me inside. “Have a seat,” he told me, gesturing at a large, blue sofa that sat in front of a television set tuned to a cable news channel.

My stomach’s discomfort grew in intensity.

Gas built with unrelenting persistence. As I sat on the sofa, I saw that an old, sad looking Bloodhound mix had been laying on the floor all this time. As my explosive stomach pressure built, I strategically sat where my feet rested near the old dog.

Mr. Cromwell sat in a recliner on the opposite side of the throw rug.

I could hear the faint rumbles of my stomach as I nervously idled by.  We sat in uncomfortable silence. Mr. Cromwell smiled at me and comforted, “Emily should be down soon.”

I smiled weakly. My stomach was killing me and all I could think about was this gas that would not leave me, and in fact, only grew in intensity. It consumed my existence.

Finally, unable to hold it, I release a plume of noxious fart.  It came out much louder than I anticipated.

Mr Cromwell looked at the dog, “Grover!”

Aha. He thought it was the dog. Relieved, I carefully released another little tortured biscuit.

“Grover!” Mr. Cromwell barked.

Somewhat grateful that I could now deflect my anxious flatulence on Grover, I released a third sputter of machine gun air biscuits. The sound was tremendous but I could not help it!  At least Emily’s dad thought it was the dog.

“Grover, I”m warning you!” Mr. Cromwell yelled. “Get out of there before he shits all over you!”