Have you ever had one of those farts that ripple up your buttcrack and erupt from its crest–instead of just spilling from the designated hole? I had one while I was eating my cereal this morning. My posture wasn’t quite 90 degrees and I may have been favoring the left hemassphere, so I figured I was just sitting wrong…
…and then it happened again at work. While I was standing.
I’m pretty sure my cheeks are in top condition and I haven’t been inserting many foreign objects into my diarrhea faucet in recent weeks…so I have no idea what’s causing this phenomenon.
Part of me finds this amusing…but a greater part of me fears the formation of an odorous brown patch on my lower back.
I’ve invested in an economy pack of cotton balls to stuff along my crack, held in place only by the sticky perspiration naturally found within that region after a morning jog.
However, fearing the powerful gust may prove too much for a mere cotton barricade, I’ve also invested in a “picnic pack” of bendy straws that I’m hoping I can rig into an elaborate fart rerouting system. I’ll tape them together, creating a “gas line,” if you will, that would start at the northernmost ridge of my ass, sending the farts up my spinal column, over my right shoulder, down my arm and out the sleeve of my jacket.
Not only would I thwart an unwanted scented “tramp stamp,” this method would also give the illusion that I have magical powers–such as a sprinkling of foul fairy dust from my fingertips, or bolts of rancid heat from my palms. Whenever I feel gaseous, I’ll shake the hand of a coworker, pinch the cheeks of a baby or fingerbang a bedridden elderly woman against her will.
You see, folks…when nature fucks with you, you need to take a deep breath and compose yourself. With a clear head you can turn any negative into a positive, just ask those silly H.I.V. fanatics.
- see also:
–Hey, signature police…suck my John Han-cock