Nice Flarpet - Is That Berber?

So Big Brother got an award for being good during children's church a couple of Sundays ago. He was so excited to bring home a prize. His trophy? A can of Flarp - aka "fart putty". Now some of us moms will read that and go "how disgusting and inappropriate!" But I'm telling you from years and years of ministry with older boys, Flarp is the way to the male heart (and you always thought it was through his stomach!). Nothing breaks the ice faster and causes more laughs than being able to produce the sounds of bodily functions by simply inserting your finger in a can of goo (and nothing pleases the females in the room more than bodily noises that smell like blueberries instead of, well, you know....I always thought blueberry was a kind of interesting choice of fragrances though....).

Many, many laughs were had over the past couple of weeks in the Roberts household over this little can of Flarp. Until this past Sunday, that is. I'm not laughing so much right now....

Little Man thought it would be a good idea the other day to play with the Flarp outside of it's original, intended container. He also apparently thought it would be a good idea to see what happens when we put Flarp on the carpet - and leave it there. Oh yes, and I discovered all of this right before we were supposed to walk out the door for evening services. Perfect.

So it sat there all night (the residue, anyway - I picked up what I could). And then I forgot about it the next morning. Which meant that last night I was laying in the carpet wetting it down to try and saturate the now cement-like substance, and squeezing each individual fiber to get out what I could. I worked on it for about 45 minutes and did pretty well, but there's still a long way to go. Yeah, Flarp? Not so funny anymore.

We'll get it all out eventually (I hope). But you want to know the best part of it all? Until we figure out how to clean it all up, there will be a very noticible Carolina blue stain in the perfect shape of a Tar Heel footprint next to our dinner table. Guess which football team is my husband's least favorite?

Yeah, he's not laughing either.