Bubba was getting "dressed" for dining out. His typical handpicked outfit is shorts, t-shirt, and button down shirt. His outfits rarely match and often don't fit, but he takes great pride in his "cool" outfit selection.
Anyhow, he came out wearing large khaki green shorts, a smallish orange and blue t-shirt, and a very small long-sleeve yellow plaid button down shirt.
"Mom, is grandpa's fart still on this shirt?"
"Huh?"
"Mom, is grandpa's fart still on this shirt?"
"What!?"
"What does a fart look like? Do you see it? Do you see it on my shirt?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Grandpa farted on this shirt at Mema's house. Remember? Remember Mom?!?!"
We haven't been to Mema's house in months and I don't remember Bubba wearing that shirt or my dad passing gas on it. But to be fair, my dad does emit obnoxious suffocating fumes on a regular basis, so even the remote possibility of one of his farts being left on my shirt would freak me out too.
Sensing his growing agitation over the possibility of not being able to wear the "perfect" shirt, I inspected the shirt carefully, and then confidently handed it back to Bubba.
"No farts. It is all clean. Grandpa's fart came out in the wash."
Bubba begrudgingly took the shirt and pushed his gangly arms through the slender sleeves. He did a quick once over, seemed content with my response, and dashed to the car. Another meltdown averted.
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