Mrs. Muzikdude and I hang out frequently with a couple of other families. It seems that most of our outings involve food, which makes sense since we all love to eat.

I’ve posted about these friends in the past. One likes to drown ducklings and another prefers slamming baby bunnies on the pavement. Yeah…those two. Their husbands are a bit more sensitive in that they don’t see sport in the senseless killing of baby animals.

It’s a good balance.

Anyway, my friend the duck slayer is an admitted lactard and she recently convinced me to come out of the closet with my lactarduous tendencies. Actually, I wasn’t in denial about my “issue”, I just never made the connection between dairy products and my scent. Some people would say that I chose to be lactose intolerant because I need the sense of acceptance I get from other lactards but I’m telling you; I was born this way. I’m sick of the ridicule. You won’t see me telling someone with IBS that they just like to crap their pants.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I’m open-minded. In fact, Mr. Duckslayer and I were listening to a discussion about art. I asked him if I could call him during lunch the next day to discuss sculpture and he replied, “I make racecars with my poop”. Now that’s what I call cultured and contemporary. However, I decided not to call.

I digress.

My life as an admitted lactard started at lunch one day when Mrs. Duckslayer suggested I try the Crème Brule. I noticed that she and Mrs. Bunnybasher both stared at me with anticipation as I took the first bite. I thought they were interested in my reaction to the wonderful dessert. The reality was that they saw something in me that most people had missed for years. They wanted to celebrate the real me and the Crème Brule was their version of slipping me a mickey.

We went back to Mr. and Mrs. Duckslayer’s house after lunch. This is where I felt the first rumble “dayown undah.” I held out as long as I could bear then told Mrs. Muzikdude we must be going. I was embarrassed, in denial, and in pain…it’s not healthy to hold it in like that…I needed to let off some steam. So we bid our farewells and took our leave.

The drive home was one for the history books. About half a mile from the Duckslayer’s house, I relaxed. The resulting gaseous flow incited animosity toward me and my newfound lifestyle as Mrs. Muzikdude, Dr. Smellgood, and Dramamama scrambled to roll down the windows. The breeze was nice, but I felt a bit singled out. The release of pressure was like nothing I had ever experienced. My ears popped, the air rushed from my lungs, my vision blurred. It was like a sudden loss in cabin pressure on a high altitude flight...without the oxygen masks. The 30 second burst almost caused me to pull over and regain composure. My chest felt as if someone had hit me with a baseball bat. I was a new man.

At this point, I wasn’t yet labeled as a lactard; not by my family, anyway.

The Duckslayers and Bunnybahsers asked us out to dinner at Biaggi’s Italian Restaurant a few months later. They had already suggested that I may have a “problem” because they had heard the story about our drive home. Mrs. Duckslayer offered me a Lactaid pill with my desert (which, incidentally, was Crème Brule). I took the pill and ate my desert.

The rest of the evening was very much like the infamous drive home. It was truly aweful [sic]. My family insists that I do these things just to make their lives miserable but I honestly don’t. I suffer too. Not only do I have the pain, I can’t get away from myself as they can. I have to sit there and deal with it. I wish I could be different, but this is my life…this is who I am.

For a while, I had always blamed the Duckslayer family because they seemed to be the common denominator to my problem. Every time we ate with them I would become a pollutant.

Mrs. Muzikdude banned me from eating Crème Brule in hopes that this was as deep as the affliction would go. This was not the case. As it turns out, I’m a full-on lactard in the most glorious sense of the word…and I’m proud of it. I will no longer hide from myself. I still eat ice cream, drink milkshakes, and devour boiled eggs by the dozen. If you can’t handle it, maybe you should take your narrow-minded self and hang out with people like Dr. Smellgood.

Why is it that we tend to harbor animosity toward minorities? I didn’t ask to be a lactard but even my own family shuns me. They don’t understand me.

This year, I intend to organize a lactard parade through the streets of downtown Colorado Springs. We will have milkshakes and Crème Brule for everyone. I plan to set up custard booths and malt stands at every block along the parade route. I’m still checking into EPA air quality standards, but I think we can pull this off if there’s a decent breeze.

I’ve chosen to embrace who I am rather than deny it. I hope others will step up and join the cause to bring lactardicity awareness to the public at large. We shouldn’t be forced to hold back in elevators, busses or taxicabs. We need to fly our flags of lac-pride high and hot. People will eventually get used to us. They will learn to accept the smell. Follow me…for the struggle will pay off in the end.

Lactards unite!