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My brother walked into the kitchen, where I had just finished eating a magnificent Philly Cheesesteak burrito from California Tortilla, and remarked, "... What smells like farts here? It's like... farts and beans!"
Which is ironic, as the Philly Cheesesteak burrito has substituted the usual burrito staple of beans for a heaping helping of pure awesomeness. Not that Edd cared, as he turned his attention to the one and only culprit for the kitchenful of fart-smell.
He asked, "Did... whoa, Johnny-boy, did you fart? Did you do this?"
And after a moment's hesitation, I said, "Yeah. Yeah, that was me. Sorry."
Because here's the thing: this isn't the first time Edd's thought the food I eat smelled, to his food-snobbery nostrils, like poo gas. He takes food very seriously, and in recent years, Edd looking down upon my eating habits has become a national pastime (as he has been doing it to me on either coast). He's been a brutal taste arbiter, and would not hesitate to be a total asshole about what you're eating wrong. That's, of course, only if he really loved you. These days he's learned there's no point wasting that energy, but in some ways, the silent cloud of obvious disapproval is worse. It lets his unspoken judgment run wild in one's imagination, which is especially not-fun if you're as neurotic as me.
So I had a choice to make: lie and confess to an imagined fart, or tell the truth and admit to eating something that smells like farts. Ultimately, it wasn't even a contest. The lie would not only cover my ass--so to speak--but additionally earned the only possible response, said with heartiness and admiration:
"NICE!"
Well, we are brothers, after all. Now if you'll excuse me, I must eat my burritos in peaceful shame.
Which is ironic, as the Philly Cheesesteak burrito has substituted the usual burrito staple of beans for a heaping helping of pure awesomeness. Not that Edd cared, as he turned his attention to the one and only culprit for the kitchenful of fart-smell.
He asked, "Did... whoa, Johnny-boy, did you fart? Did you do this?"
And after a moment's hesitation, I said, "Yeah. Yeah, that was me. Sorry."
Because here's the thing: this isn't the first time Edd's thought the food I eat smelled, to his food-snobbery nostrils, like poo gas. He takes food very seriously, and in recent years, Edd looking down upon my eating habits has become a national pastime (as he has been doing it to me on either coast). He's been a brutal taste arbiter, and would not hesitate to be a total asshole about what you're eating wrong. That's, of course, only if he really loved you. These days he's learned there's no point wasting that energy, but in some ways, the silent cloud of obvious disapproval is worse. It lets his unspoken judgment run wild in one's imagination, which is especially not-fun if you're as neurotic as me.
So I had a choice to make: lie and confess to an imagined fart, or tell the truth and admit to eating something that smells like farts. Ultimately, it wasn't even a contest. The lie would not only cover my ass--so to speak--but additionally earned the only possible response, said with heartiness and admiration:
"NICE!"
Well, we are brothers, after all. Now if you'll excuse me, I must eat my burritos in peaceful shame.
