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.