Tuesday, September 22, 2009

"Pure Class"

“Holy Christ I have to fart. Good god, man. Come on, why now? This thing is gonna be huge. One of those fifteen-second rips that’s so long the stink hits you before the show is even half over. Don’t expect an intermission: This is one straight-through, non-stop bass guitar solo from the inner depths of my bowels, played in the key of regret. I bet there’s gonna be skid marks. Yeah, pretty much a guarantee of long brown streaks in these underpants. I might as well just commit myself to throwing them out as soon as this thing erupts from my asshole and belches a brown haze of grime all over the inside of these Hanes. I bet the fart came from those three meatball subs from lunch. I had a few of them last week and my farts that afternoon were so disgusting I had to get up and leave my office for an hour. It was one of those times where I was on my computer and the fart cloud just sat directly between my legs and under my nose, stagnant and humid, for what felt like an eternity. As soon as I felt the vomit creeping up my esophagus, I ran out of there. I’m glad the asthmatic kid from across the street is not here because this fart would kill him. He would instantly drop dead from the stench of this hellish and nauseating gas. His young, weak lungs would literally drown in this fart. When I die I certainly don’t want the fowl stench of a grown man’s colon bacteria clogging my nostrils like a cork made of diarrhea. This will be one of those rips that reeks of death, like a hundred rotting corpses. The kind that makes me briefly consider putting a bullet through my brain just to escape the odor for one god damned second. I can tell already that as soon as this thing wrestles its way past my sphincter and ruins our evening, I will be ashamed for, and disgusted with, myself. But before it does, sweetie, will you marry me?”

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