When I say that my shit doesn't stink, I'm actually telling the truth in a fashion. As gassy as I usually am, my farts tend to be quite loud but for the most part they don't have that awful odor that goes along with the average flatulence. In other words, my bark is worse than my bite. Despite what my wife may tell you about the matter, I think that we're quite lucky that we can enjoy all of the comedic effects of hearing my farts, yet at the same time lose almost all of the noxious fumes that often follow the laughter. It's a win-win situation as far as I'm concerned.
That was true until my 10 year old son, Jonathan, started to take after his dear old dad and kicked the amount of his own emissions up a few notches. He's aggressively started his own chemical warfare campaign on our living room. The problem is that his farts are probably twice as unpleasant as the next guy's. While mine are loud and proud, his are of the silent but deadly ilk. They are really so bad that I have to wonder what's crawled up his ass and died. He's as skinny as a rail and has a normal kid diet, so I really have no idea why he has been cursed this way.
Of course he really has a knack of releasing his toxic gas in the car where there is no relief but to crack the windows in winter and hope you can hold your nose. I try my best not to deride the poor kid, he has a poor self esteem as it is. But when your senses are assaulted like that, it's hard not to react in a negative way. I know he probably winds up catching shit from his schoolmates when they catch wind of his shit. I think he can identify with Pepe LePew, the cartoon skunk who only wanted love but had an odor in the way of his quest.
I need to take him aside and teach how to deflect accusations and perhaps even master ventriloquism with his butt. Unfortunately, this requires acting ability and lying which my son is just awful at. He can't lie worth a lick, which in of itself is a good thing. It's just not good to be an honest person when he needs to blame the dog.