An onorous task turns odorous

This is what this post will be about. Read on, at your peril.

I was washing the dishes - easily my least favorite chore- and Rascal was helping.

"Helping": a.k.a. explaining loudly how to wash and sort each item to the minutest detail. Adding extra soap (it's concentrated, so four squirts really goes a long way), elaborating on the general yuckiness of steamed veggies, and insisting on rinsing each item personally.

Kye was doodling around in the background, pushing random buttons on the computer (QuickTime doesn't work anymore but everything else is fine) and emptying pencil shavings from Tweenie's sharpener onto the floor.

Suddenly, Rascal cracks off a really loud fart. Kye's head whips around, momentarily confused. He trots over to where Rascal is leaning over the sink and lifts his shirt, looking for the source of the strange noise.

Kye is no stranger to farting; more often than not, he is the author of such outbursts. Apparently it's much more interesting when someone else does it, though.

Rascal is oblivious to the goings-on at the back end of his digestive system, engrossed in scratching meatball crud off a dutch oven. As Kye peeks under his shirt, he lets another one loose. Like other aftershocks, this second explosion is a good deal louder and smellier than the first.

Kye drops the shirt hem and staggers back, blinking. "OOH!" he exclaims. Then he retreats to the living room and relative safety. Husband and I crack up. Rascal has noticed none of this. The stench begins to spread through the kitchen and we all escape.

The dishes can wait until later, I reason. This chemical warfare is simply not worth the fight. Now imagine he had eaten those steamed veggies? I guess he was right to turn his nose up at them.