The Importance of Being Fartful

All right here's my fartful flatulence story.

This summer, Stink Pants and I went to Oregon to visit Hoochie Momma, the Professor and their kids, Roar and Meow, at their house. This was in the heat of the presidential election, and I think the Professor had just finished berating my lack of interest in who did what.

Anyway, you know when you get a stomach cramp, you can feel the pressure and gas building inside you and it's like you're about to give birth to the Rosemary's Baby through your ass? Well, that's what I felt. I got up from the couch and rushed towards the bathroom that was closest to Stink Pants and my room. I didn't very far though. H-Momma and the Professor had a baby gate blocking the steps that lead down to the bathroom.

I started to panic because I couldn't get the damn thing open. I would have just jumped over the gate, but the steps led down. 1) I was afraid of falling and 2) in my certain fall, I was sure to let out the grossest emission of bodily gas in the century. The Professor, always vigilantly observant, took note of my tribulation and came to my rescue. I was crouched down, fiddling with the lock, hoping to high heaven that doubling over like that would help curtail the coming onslaught of stinkiness. As the Professor bent over to help me, it happened.

I blew my pants out.

It was bad. It was so bad I could feel the stink lines rising from my pants. It was an SBD WMD: Silent But Deadly Weapon of Mass Destruction. The Professor opened the gate and said something about me and the baby gate and engineering school for four years. I don't remember exactly what he said, because I was already sprinting for the bathroom. It was there that I realized how awful the smell was.

That was dreadful. If there were ever any ants, bugs or spiders in their bathroom there aren't any now because I'm sure they didn't survive the Great Poison Gas Massacre of Ought-Four.

So that's my fart story. Sometimes I wonder if The Professor thought I ran from the room like that because of what he was saying. Nothing to do with it. I ran because of the boiling flatulence rumbling in my ass. Then again, he may have smelled it and known, being as observant as he is. In that case, sorry for stinkin' up your house, man.