And then the flatulence - as always, without warning, permission or consideration.
It cares not whether I am surrounded by friends or strangers in a stuffy room where winter prohibits windows from being opened. Or whether I'm in a compact car filled with awkward silence and Serena - a winter woman I was trying to seduce. If only I could be a cow in a rolling meadow carpeted with buttercups.
Cows aren't bothered by flatulent friends. They find nothing funny about the lack of control age inflicts. Cows, with their wise, soulful eyes, know nothing dignified happens near the end.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief