Someone's Left A Surprise

... and this time, it's not Dusty.

On Sunday afternoon, a pungent gift arrives courtesy of neighborhood boys pranking the home of the SJG. It plays out like this: Double Ding Dong! Hubby goes to open the door. What follows: A very loud POP. And then, a nasty smell wafts down the hall with alarming speed.  Mid-siesta, I cry, "Ew!" and, in my grogginess, turn to the usual suspect:  the eldest son, resting on the sofa, recovering from an extreme hair cut. "It wasn't me," he says. I find this hard to believe. Until hubby clarifies:  "Fart bomb!" "What?" "Must've been some neighborhood kids." Hysterical laughter from the eldest.  The SJG?  Not laughing. Coughing.  Fanning the air for relief.  The house reeks. "I don't understand." "It's a bag of sulfur that explodes," hubby explains.  The man just knows stuff. "It's disgusting." Now the eldest rises off the sofa. "Those little mother-eff'ers!  If anyone's going to fart bomb this house, it's me."  I've never been prouder.  "Go get 'em!" I say.  And off he goes, in search of justice. Two seconds later, he's back.  The culprits are long gone.  Bastards! This morning, hubby reports that "Fart Bomb XL" foil packages litter the entire neighborhood. We're not the only ones who got pranked.  I feel so much better now.  Suffering should always be a group activity.