Dear Husband: I Love You, But Your Farts Are Killing Me, Smalls

by Fanny Beeper
Anetlanda / iStock

Dear sweet husband:

Where do I begin? When I was a young girl, I dreamt of a man who would come into my life and knock me off my feet.

And since the day we met 15 years ago, you were that guy. With your obnoxious laugh, stunning blue eyes, and the way you flirted like a sixth-grader, I was a goner. Then you fell in love with little ole me, and I couldn’t believe my luck!

You were the perfect man: hard-working, fun, with a heart of gold. Your crap smelled like roses.

Okay, so I couldn’t be 100% sure about that last part since we didn’t poop around each other back then, but no way could something foul could ever come from your perfect, sexy body.


After 10 years of marriage, I’m happy to report things haven’t changed. When you laugh, my heart bubbles up with joy. Your junior high school humor still has me in stitches. And with the help of Poo-Pourri, your crap literally smells like roses.

I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.



Since love is honest and we’ve made it this long, it’s time to address the elephant in the room (the enormous, hot, stinking elephant).

When I wished for a guy who would knock me off my feet every day? Yah, that wasn’t meant to be a literal thing. In no corner of my romantic fantasies did I ever dream that Mr. Perfect could send me running for the hills with incessant, noxious ass-blasts.

Your farts, babe. My god.

I love you. I really love you.

But they make me want to die!

When I vowed “till death do us part,” I meant it. But heads-up, that whole death thing may come quickly if you Dutch-oven me “on accident” one more time.

I am pretty sure that whatever it is that dies in your body over dinner keeps coming back from the dead to kill me. I can’t breathe. I know you want me to keep breathing.

You like me, don’t you?

I’m a tough woman. You know this because I birthed your babies like a total badass. But I am at my wit’s end. This foul-ass flatulence has officially brought me to my knees.

And no, not in that way.

Maybe you’ve noticed that whole thing hasn’t been happening much lately?

Lemme break it down for you: There’s no way in hell I’m putting my face anywhere near the line of fire. Until we get this dis-ass-ter under control, your nether regions are officially a no-fly zone. Sorry, Charlie. I ain’t no hero. I ain’t goin’ there.

Maybe this is coming off a little harsh. You know I love you, right? Just like I vowed, I’ll stand by your side through sickness and health. And this totally counts as sickness (the sickest, so effing sick).

The bottom line is this: I’m not going anywhere, so we should figure this thing out together, one step at a time.

Like, first of all, what the hell are you eating, babe?

I know what’s in our pantry and I cook your dinners, so you have to be sneaking something on the side. What is it? Pickled dog turds?

I kid, I kid.

But seriously, if we are eating the same exact thing every day, and your body is doing that, and you know, mine is not, maybe it’s something else?

Have you considered going to a doctor? It’s definitely possible that your insides are melting. Are molten lava intestines a thing? We should ask. At minimum, we should bring up the term irritable bowel syndrome. Let’s go. I will hold your hand throughout the entire appointment and we can even check in under a funny alias — like Fanny Beeper, or Benjamin Browncloud, or maybe Ima Stinker? It could be fun!


I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. I know this whole situation stinks for you too.

I was just hoping we could…clear the air. Literally.

That Poo-Pourri can only accomplish so much, babe.