To paraphrase the excellent comedian Louis CK: Farts are funny. Because 1. They come out of your ass. 2. They smell like poop, because they’ve been hanging around it all day, and 3. They make a trumpet sound. You don’t have to be smart of laugh at a fart, but you have to be stupid not to.

I came into direct contact with fart humor this week, when I went to a swanky movie theater to see Super 8 (which was excellent, by the way. Completely Stand By Me, but action intense). The chairs reclined, but every time you reclined them, they made a long, hilarious fart. And everyone in the surrounding area giggled. It happened all over the theater, numerous times. Farting chairs. Ha. Ha. Hee. Hee.

Dumb humor. I love wit as much as the next guy, but there’s something to be said for dumb humor.

I am waiting for books this week. Waiting for the Game of Thrones boxed set. Waiting for an early copy of The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer. Also waiting to decide what my first ebook should be. Because I got a Nook for my birthday. It’s also a tablet so Dylan can play Angry Birds.

In writing world, the series outlines were agent-approved this week. Yay. But sort of a boo, because I feel like I might know what happens now. I’ve been thinking a lot about how this series got started, how many tries it took to find the way to write it, how many false starts and failures. I wrote an entire novel of clunk. Then three more chapters of clunk that were re-written three times. And just when I thought it was dead, it gave a subtle shift, and pretty much fell onto the page. It was there the whole time, just waiting for my stupid ass to learn how to do it. Now that I have, I hope I have the chance to write the rest.

But no worrying about that just now. It’s my birthday week. (Actually I claim the whole month. You should try it. People let you get away with murder during your birthday month.) I foresee good food and perhaps an arcade where I will shoot many aliens and dinosaurs and stomp at air hockey.