Not THAT kind of Whoopee. Not with all the fart noises in the background. You see, Sally has discovered the unending hysterics of foofs. That’s what we call them. Foofs. Cute, right?
At my parents’ house recently, we were having hot dogs for lunch. My father went to squeeze the nearly empty bottle of mustard, and instead of condiment he got that moist foof sound.
Sally, mouth full of bun and ketchup, nearly died of the giggles. She could barely sit up, chewed wiener in full view. And naturally, her fit of the funnies made us all laugh. Because our angelic 3-year-old had just discovered the humor in the sound of passing gas.
Note: Only those of us with one child would think this is adorable. I’m pretty sure the rest of the world tries to squelch this kind of behavior.
So it was funny, yada yada, we relayed the story to every family member who came through the front door as if Sally had won a Nobel prize, and then it was over, right?
Sally’s grandfather produced a whoopee cushion. A SELF-INFLATING whoopee cushion–all the fun with none of the work. So, it really is fine and everything, Pop, but it has changed our lives.
Yesterday after work:
“Did you have fun with Daddy today?” ffffffftttt. “SALLY, did you have fun?”
“Yes! Mommy, say ‘I don’t EVER foof!’ ”
“Okay. I don’t EVER–” ffffffbbbt. [Child collapses in fit of laughter.]
At the dinner table:
flubbbtt. “Sally, that’s not for the dinner table.”
“But I need it!” feeeebbtt.
“NO.” [Remove offensive disgusting toy.] [Child angry.]
“I need my whoopee cushion.”
“No, it’s time for bed.”
“I can sleep with it.”
“But it’s FUN!” fllrrrbt. [laughter] “Mommy, say ‘I don’t EVER foof!’ ”
“Idon’teverfoof.” flrrrggrrrbt. [laughter. Mother yells over giggles.] “ENOUGH. Into bed.”