Don't fart. Don't smell.

I was in the army for a number of years--that's why I hadn't blogged in a while. Everything was going well then they put in a new rule: "Don't fart. Don't smell." That was the end of me. I tried to hide my farts for a while but there comes a time when you can't explain away the explosiveness on gunfire, wild pigs, computer viruses, squeaky grenade launchers, defective iPods playing African throat music, spontaneous rodent combustion, march gas, ball lightning, or the Doppler effect. It really got to the point where my comrades in arms would preventatively wear smelling salts creams under their noses or hazmat suits under the pretense that there was a rumour of a possible chemical attack.

Probably every thing would be still be fine had it not be for the repopularised fondu craze that swept the base. With hindsight, I probably should not have suggested the brown bean-cabbage-cheese fondue. To make a long story short, I think I'll stick with chocolate fondues.

The inquest concluded that the fire took the lives of 24 soldiers was caused by gastrointestinal event of unprecedented magnitude. As the sole survivor present at ground zero, I was intensely questioned and examined. Unfortunate rigour coupled with a breakfast burrito and a Bunsen burner, resulted in the consequent deaths of two non-military lab techs. Officially, all the deaths were written up as friendly fire. Unofficially, I was given a choice of either working in dietary weapons development or take a quiet retirement from the army and take up residence in the well ventilated sparsely populated north.

Currently, I'll looking into electric fondue sets and doing some self medicating--mega-doses of Rogaine on my backside...it's cold up north.