Flarp

I got into an argument with a baker at one of those big supercenter stores last night. He was so angry he told me to go pound cake. We were there to buy a camouflage t-shirt for Major Havoc, but we didn’t see any. That’s a sure indication that the shirt works, so I’m going back this morning to buy one.

The Boss is heading off to Milwaukee to visit her sister this weekend. She’ll return on Tuesday. The General is heading out to Lawrence, Kansas, on a Boy Scout camp-out. I’m remaining at home with the Major and the Captain, two children who will fill their days with plenty of fun and games. That leaves me with a full tool box and no adult supervision. It’s a frightening concept, isn’t it? I’m wavering between gutting a bathroom and repairing the stairwell to the basement. The odds are I will work on the basement stairwell simply because it doesn’t involve moving a toilet. We all know how well that worked out the last time I tried it.

General Mayhem’s grandmother gave him a container of Flarp for Easter. “Flarp” is a non-toxic polymer in a small plastic jar. An experienced Flarper can recreated the sound of any fart, from the wee wisp of a one-cheek sneak to the window rattling rumble of a seat lifter simple by inserting his fingers into the tub of goo. The boy made great use of his gift on Easter morning, keeping his younger siblings in fits of hysterical laughter so hard I thought they would wet themselves. Nothing celebrates the gift of the Risen Savior like imitation gas.

The General noted that Flarp would be a great way to hide a real poot. The timing would have to be nearly perfect. I thought the idea was brilliant, but I was quickly corrected by a disapproving glance from the Boss. Bad idea.  Bad, bad idea.  But, scratch-and-sniff Flarp could be a great seller. They could sell Beer Flarps, Bean Flarps, Broccoli Flarps…

That’s about all I’ve got this morning. Have a great weekend!