I’m sitting in the second row of a long plane ride and Noel the dog just started gassing-out the whole first class section. She is placed right under a man’s seat, and he does not know that she is there:
A Yorkie Flight bag
Now these are not those “Aww . . . how cute . . . ” little Yorkie farts. These are industrial strength farts, nasty, putrid gas with the wallop to take-down a full grown man.
Dog farts are beyond nasty
The businessman in the first row just exclaimed “What the heck died in here?” and he is starting to make faces and looking at me over his shoulder!
Gawd, he thinks I did it! I’m honored, of course, but I swear to God, I did not rip these nasties. . .
And Janet’s no help at all. She’s just sitting there, bent-over in a fetal position, crippled with laughter!!!
But it's probably my fault, I should not have fed her that aged kielbasa sausage. . . .
Never feed kielbasa to a Yorkie
He who smelt it, dealt it
For a small pooch, Noel can sure pass the gas, and she can clear a room better than a dog five times her size. But it’s agonizing in a small fuselage, where the smell gently wafts back, row by row, into the coach section . . . . Man, it’s so dense you can almost see it . .
I think that Socrates once said: “He who smelt it, dealt it”.
Next time he looks back here, I’m gonna give the guy a dirty look, and ask "What on earth have you been eating?" . . .
J’Accuse!
It reminds me of the bestselling book “Walter the farting dog”:
And the inevitable knock-offs:
What will we do when we don't have Dubya to mock anymore?
