While working on The Rock, I had been sharing a room with Illa, a German-born psychic on the tour. She has many interesting stories about being bombed out of her house in war-time Germany to tell, and I have enjoyed hearing them. We cried a little, we laughed a little. I peed a little.

Mostly she makes me laugh.

There is something about German women in my experience that makes sharing sleeping quarters awkward. It isn’t the whole getting undressed thing. No, Europeans seem just fine with that. Naked, not naked, no big.

It’s the mighty wind.

The very same mighty wind that would apparently come from my uncultured arse. There’s good reason that Dances with Shrapnel dubbed me Methane Mom.

In my logical mind, I consider it a tradeoff. I don’t snore. She does. And? If I don’t let off pressure once in awhile, I fear my colon may implode.

You may recall that I have poop issues. Specifically, pooping in a public place. It becomes very uncomfortable. Because I am holding it and suffering in case some stranger that I will never see again should come into a public washroom and smell my poop. Or? God forbid, hear me making pooping noises.

When I am approaching the sanctity of the hotel room privy, the putt-putts commence in earnest. I suspect it is a Pavlovian response. No amount of “excuse mes” will serve to actually excuse me. German ladies are strict that way. Even with your strict “no farting” policy, you have managed to endear yourself to me.

By the way, Illa? That cough? The one I teased you about lighting two cigarettes at once to fully enjoy it?

Sharing a room with you gifted me with the same cough. I swear every time I make fun of someone, it bites me in the arse.