It’s the morning after Thanksgiving and Eberhard and I are lying in bed reminiscing over last evening’s dinner. Our neighbor begins his daily routine of singing his scales. He does this every morning without fail and is very dedicated in his endeavors to enhance his voice. We both enjoy opera. Not that I’ve studied a lot of its makings or purpose, but I have enjoyed its feelings.

All of a sudden, part of last nights afterglow erupts from Eberhard’s behind. Not to be overshadowed we synchronize our farts to our neighbor’s voice. The show is not over until the fat lady sings, they say. We’re not fat, but this show ends quickly.

We’ve made our first  f’opera.


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