A nice "gesture" can sometimes result in personal detriment.

Take Sidonie, also known as "Madame Sidonyabablouche," whom my wife innocently invited to spend the night in the guest room.  Perhaps the thunderous rumble emitted by her stomach as she walked down the hallway, carrying two huge suitcases, should have been an omen—although what she needed them for I will never know.  Apparently, whatever she carried, she did so in her stomach, whose "contents" she was soon to unpack.  Not that I had necessarily been able to verify this, since she never opened her door.  Indeed, by the sound of things, I can be only so grateful that she hadn't.

From the moment she closed it, I heard every bang, boom, and bomb imaginable—explosions so loud that they even frightened the hell out of my dog.  I found him hiding behind the sofa the next morning, shaking like a leaf in a fierce wind.

During one "hiatus" from this noise, I swear she was holding on to the sides of the bed out of fear of being propelled toward the wall and ricocheting across the room.

Another "exhaust emission," apparently "stuck" for ten minutes, finally burst so loudly that it vibrated the walls.  (I will send her the bill for the cracked plaster).

Of course, this is not to mention the "perfume" created for the nose; indeed, a brown ooze began to seep under the door two minutes after she had closed it—in other words, it escaped from one crack and went through another—and, with a single whiff, I passed out on the hallway floor.

Upon retrospect, I do not even remember her attempting a single turn of the door knob for a visit to the nearby John.  Could it all have dissolved into polluted, gaseous air?

I later found out what those huge suitcases were used to carry—antacids, stored in gallon-size drums.  They made the fast food restaurants' former super-size cups look like thimbles.  Yet, the more she gulped them, the more she had to burp, as if she were in a constant battle with her gas and it always won.

The next morning she had the audacity to say nothing except to ask, "Where's the kitchen?  I need to refill my gas tank!"

It took me three days to be able to enter that room again—not to mention the psychiatrist bills for my dog (nervous breakdown, you know.)  Poor thing had to wear earmuffs for a month to block out all loud noises until his nerves finally calmed down.

Then again, I guess I can be only so grateful that that incident had not occurred during one of her "diarrhea days."

Aside from the dog's trauma, I suffered my own psychological—if not olfactory—damage and, based upon the recommendation of a (non-farting) friend, wrote down my experiences to "cleanse" my psyche, the same way she had plunged air through her derriere to cleanse her two-mile-long colon, and then posted it on Facebook so that others could learn from it.

Her response, upon reading it, had been that it had been "old."  Apparently, I had orally told the story a few times already.

Well, let me tell you what old is—the fart she just made that belonged to last week's pot roast!  (Actually, I think it was more like a rump roast.)  That's old.  Or the burp that's been "in transit" since the spring thaw.  (I'm surprised it doesn't come with its own "estimated time of arrival.")  Not to mention the fried onions and the cheddar-draped potatoes she ate with that roast—all the while cleverly sipping her soda.  She thinks I don't know what was in that glass?  Try bicarbonate of soda!  She carries little packets of the fast-dissolving tablets with her as if they were gold.  Except that the noises she makes after she's taken them don't clink like gold.  They sound more like explosions from Mount Etna.

I wouldn't dare mention that slow, but progressive lean she always makes to one side as she eats her way through her meal in order to create a separation between her rocket booster and launch pad of a seat to release you know what.  By the time she reached her dessert, she was in a virtually horizontal position and, from a distance, it appeared as if her dining partner had been speaking to an empty chair.

During a recent dinner, for example, I heard the man at the next table comment to his wife, "They must be doing construction right outside the diner."

Furrowing her brow, she asked, "What makes you say that?"

"Don't you hear that jack hammer pounding away?" he responded.

Far be it for me to judge.  But, with an affliction like this, I wouldn't spend my idle time reading Facebook messages, as she does.  Instead, I would spend it considering what doctor-prescribed medicines to take to counteract it—pills like "gaseous gurgles," "rump rumblers," "stomach stumpers," "rectum rectifiers," "bubble busters," and "burp booms."

I would like to continue writing, but I suddenly have to go to the bathroom…  Give me a minute.

There, I'm back.  I feel very much relieved.  I don't know where the sudden urge came from.  Anyway, the next time, I can assure you, she will sleep in that cheap motel down the road. 

Well, the lesson here is that you should always screen your house guests before you invite them to stay overnight—or stock up on gas masks if you don't.