A woman goes to her boyfriend’s parents’ house for dinner. It’s her first time meeting the family, and she’s so nervous you’d think she was meeting the royal family, not a middle-aged couple with a cat named Sir Fluffington.
They all sit down and begin eating a fine meal—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, the works. Everything seems perfect. The mom is polite, the dad seems pleasant, and her boyfriend hasn’t said anything embarrassing yet. A miracle.
Just as she’s starting to relax, she feels a small rumble in her stomach. No big deal, she thinks. Probably just nerves.
But then it happens again. Louder. Stronger. A warning tremor.
She panics. What if I need to… you know… release the pressure? No! Not here. Not now. Not in these pants!
She tries everything—crossing her legs, uncrossing her legs, leaning on one cheek, thinking about sad things. Nothing works. It’s like trying to hold back a volcanic eruption with a paper towel.
Then, out of nowhere, the family dog walks under the table. A golden opportunity! Thank you, furry angel, she thinks.
She lets out a tiny, strategic toot.
Pfffffft.
The sound is minor, but the smell is… biblical. Even the dog looks confused.
The dad wrinkles his nose and says, “Rex! Get out from under the table!”
The woman smiles awkwardly, grateful for the scapegoat. Crisis averted. Or so she thinks.
Then comes another rumble. Worse than before. This one’s bringing backup.
She leans to the other side. Releases a bit more.
Pfffffft.
“Rex!” the dad barks again. “Go lie down!”
The dog barks back as if protesting, It wasn’t me this time, man!
She’s sweating now, praying for dessert or a meteor strike—whichever ends this dinner sooner.
Then—disaster. The third and final rumble comes with no warning. No time for strategy.
BRRRRRT!
It sounds like a tuba solo at a jazz festival. The table goes silent. Even the chicken is shocked.
The dad stands up, eyes wide. “REX! Get out before you clear the whole room!”
The woman, beet red and barely holding it together, blurts out, “Yeah, bad dog! What’s he been eating?!”
Her boyfriend whispers, “We don’t even have a dog.”
The dad looks confused. “Wait… then who’s Rex?”
Everyone pauses.
In the stunned silence, the cat, Sir Fluffington, meows judgmentally from the windowsill, as if to say, Humans are disgusting.
The woman laughs nervously. “Welp, this has been lovely. I think I left my car running… in another state.”
She grabs her purse, dignity, and what remains of her self-respect and bolts out the door.
Later, the boyfriend calls her.
“Hey… Mom loved you. Said you were the most down-to-earth girl I’ve dated.”
“Really?” she says.
“Yeah. Dad said you left an impression too.”
“Oh? What kind?”
“Let’s just say the dining room still has a bit of your… presence.”
Moral of the story? If you’re meeting the family for the first time, maybe eat light—or bring your own dog.
