The other night I came to bed with my iPhone. It didn’t seem particularly unusual to my husband since I often stream audiobooks or This American Life and listen to it instead of sports while I go to sleep.
It was a cold night, so I turned my back to my husband, cradled the iPhone near my gut and piled on the blankets.
“Oh, my stomach hurts.” I groaned to him.
And then I pressed this button.
And there was a farting sound.
Because he loves me, my husband ignored it.
The second time iFarted I giggled and groaned and my husband declared, “I sure hope that stops soon.”
“Honey, I’m really sorry. I think I ate something bad today.” I offered up, “Just don’t lift the covers”.
Then I laughed like a 12 year old boy hyena and pressed iFart 3 or 4 more times.
He started with a plaintive, “Honey!” and quickly escalated to, “What the fuck is the matter with you?” and, “Please go to the bathroom, I think you’re going to shit the bed.”
All the while I’m laughing and pressing and convulsing with laughter, because I think we all know that the only thing funnier than a fart, is tricking your husband.
Just as my husband was growing terribly alarmed, I pulled the phone out and showed him the app.