I hope my sister will accept this preemptive apology for outing her to the blogging world, but her poop stinks. Like freakin' mustard gas. I remember one time a product of her bodily functions rendered a hotel room completely uninhabitable for an entire evening. We left and came back later that night only to detect the vile scent anew.

As a consequence of these youthful experiences, I have never fallen prey to the misconception that girls' poop does not stink.

I lived with this delightful and realistic concept for many years, and even through those crucial "really getting to know" you phases of my current relationship, like flossing in front of your significant other.

But one evening, while the Hose Mistress sat out on her favorite red chair at what I considered a safe distance from the bathroom, I decided to let my bowels move at her place. I finished up, went back out to join her, and we finished what remained of the movie. At least 15 minutes later, she went back herself to brush her teeth and get ready for bed. Walking down the hall not long after, I discovered she had lit a candle.

My stinky mortification already complete, I figured discussion of her need to combat my stink necessary. She assured me that I should not worry, that everyone has stinky poop and while such an odor never delights the olfactory sense, it surely brings us out of fantasy couple world and into the real world, where couples apparently must reside if they wish to make it work.

Apparently until I declared that I would have to smell her dooky the next time she took the Browns to the Super Bowl. That embarrassed her quite a bit.

But my resolve firmly established, I waited for that moment when she needed to go Number 2, and, her task completed, I rushed to "brush my teeth" before she could stop me.

And nothing. It smelled as always in her bathroom.

Subsequent efforts uncovered no additional presence of poop stink. I must arrive at the conclusion that her poop does not smell. At all.

So apparent has my dismay over this fact become that she now declares after dropping a deuce that she has made a deposit and that it might stink. The first couple times this occurred I came running to the john with my prominent nose raised in the air in search of any hint of poop stink. But after several unsuccessful occurrences of this enterprise, I no longer even feel the desire to come running in the hopes that her poop will magically stink, that I can consider her intestines to offend like the rest of us joe six-packs.

The unfairness of this overwhelms me at times. Her poop does not stink.

How shall we handle this in the future? The imbalance alarms me. Can you possibly comprehend a potential future where we share one toilet for the rest of our days, when only I cause the porcelain to slowly corrode and the wallpaper to slink off the walls, gasping for new air? How can I possibly cohabitate with someone when I make her reach for a Bic lighter every time I go turd, knowing that she will not feel any similar sense of embarrassment from her body's delightful product?

Not fair, I tell you.

But I guess her pee stinks after eating asparagus, so that might give me somewhere to start.