He’s the forefather of fetidness, the sultan of stink, and the master of methane. I introduce to you that scourge of the sinuses, that nexus of nostril-burning noxiousness (insert drumroll here) Stenchmaster Jay. And in honor of our little green cloud, may I present to you, dear readers, a poem:
James, James, the musical neonate
The more he eats, the more he flatulates
The more he flatulates, the louder he screams
So Mommy can’t eat any broccoli or beans.
You may think you’ve smelled stinky babies before, but let me assure you that your nostrils have not sniffed until they’ve caught a whiff of our singular stinking sensation, James William Phillips. Night and day, our little guy grunts and squirms and emits a highly compressed gas that smells like rotten eggs, only more so. It’s enough to drive his own father from the room.
Maddi’s gas was “bad” in that it was painful and caused her to spend her first two and a half months screaming at the top of her little lungs. James’ gas is just BAD. It sounds bad, and it smells worse! And here, for your viewing pleasure (’cause goodness knows smelling him isn’t pleasurable), is our 11-week-old stinkbug: