The Bean-o Is Gone When The Ring Is On

Whoever planted the seed in men's heads that women don't fart, burp, sweat, or shit, you should personally thank yourself for contributing to this nation's steep divorce rate. It is almost comical, scratch that, incredibly hilarious, to watch a new relationship unfold. For some reason ladies seem to think men are dumb enough to believe that females are incapable of producing any kind of bodily function besides working the stove. They go through the trouble of eating like a bird, avoiding foods that make you gassy (so when you're getting down, you don't let one squeak out), and thanks to eating nothing but lettuce infused with air, your man is none the wiser when you tell him you don't poop. This goes on and on, and men just fuel that fire, because let's face it, they don't want to know that your colon is in full working order. And gents, this will continue to happen until you bring your little lady home from your honeymoon. That is when the real fun starts. Some little mechanism in a woman's brain clicks, and all of that shyness and secrecy just melts away. One day your husband comes home from work, and instead of a hot meal, he finds a feast from Taco Bell and a case of Bud Lite on that table. No big deal, he thinks. You sit down, eat, drink, and be some merry sons of bitches. About an hour after eating, there you are cuddled on the couch with your smitten husband, when those six bean burritos kick in and you rip a fart so loud it causes an avalanche in the Himalayas. By now your husband is thunder struck, that is until the smell hits him. You just giggle and name it Jounior and don't bat an eyelash while you're watching CSI. Fast forward to the two of you getting ready for bed. By now those beans are in full effect and you scamper off to pinch a loaf before you knock boots with hubby. And don't worry about a thing, you lost that shame when you said "I do!" so you just go right ahead and kick open that door, a girl needs ventilation after all. The icing on the cake is when you realize there is no toilet paper so you tell you husband ever so sweetly to bring you some, not bothering to tell him he's about to walk into a haz mat zone. Can you believe the nerve? When he was done retching he informed you that, no, your little mud angels do not smell like roses, and no, he does not want to see it. Congrats, you have officially ruined any ideals your husband had about you. And laughing about your flatulent symphony during sex did not help your situation. By now your husband has packed his bags and flew the coup so fast you can still smell the burning rubber in your driveway. This, ladies, is why I never sugar coated things when my husband and I were dating (I use that term lightly since, technically, we didn't go on our first date until the day after we got married.). When he started courting me, I was sure to inform him that I will swear like a sailor, eat like a trucker, and when nature calls, I answer with gusto. The physical acts of my bodily functions certainly didn't attract him, but my honesty about it did. He is completely okay that when I exert myself I sweat worse than a hooker in church, and I love him for that. And I have news for you finicky females out there, as long as you're not copping a squat in a public venue, it doesn't bother men one bit. In fact, it makes you seem a little bit more down to earth and they'll respect you for it. So step away from the bean-o, and let it fly.