Men fart too
much. They do it a lot. They laugh and joke about it and even admit with great pride their best accomplishment. I am
confident tonight in my slumbering sleep that the silence of the dark forest will be broken by the thundering roar
of the men’ evening dinner.
The dawn harkens the call of anal artillery. Each pungent bouquet is accompanied
by a booming report. And when the rectal siren’s song ceases to echo of the distant canyon walls, the evidence
remains in the men’s gravy stained shorts. As my eyes water from the acrid clouds of digestive emissions, I
find that I am filled with envy. The thought of sharing in the majestic poot pageantry makes my rectum tingle with
As the sun rises, I slowly feel the tingling sensation of my sphincter screaming for a joyous bowel
movement. Knowing the brewing long can be mined for methane, I see my opportunity to freshen the air.
painful pressure wells within my gut. I see in the faint distance the cedar sided shack, and as life often does, I
am faced with a crossword decision. My alimentary earnestness beckons me. Shall I deposit a corn studded butt bone
in that fly infested hole of fuming human compost? Or shall I retain possession until such time as I can spray foul
air in a glorious reverberation of the pine boards on which I sit.
My decision becomes crystal clear as one of the
men lifts his left cheek and carves off a generous slice of roast booty beef. Manhood is just around the corner. I
summon my great reserve of abdominal energy and push out my bunger like there is no tomorrow.
My straining is
instantly rewarded. A large bubble of intestinal gas blows its way through my southerly canal. As it exists, an
ensuing vacuum pulls my buttocks back together with a deafening clap.
As the men in the camp, their ears ringing,
look around for the agent of their sensory discomfort, I can only try to hide my shame in filling my pants with
syrupy warmth. But shame gives way to pride, for I can see in the nodding, approving glances of the others that I
have become a man.
Last edited by belgareth; 08-26-2010 at 02:40 AM.
Hilarious! And very well
My rite of passage came around the time of Jr High School, and our locker room was the crucible of
fire for any boy who hoped to scrabble up the fart chain to become champion.
Our reigning hero had, among other
talents, the ability to rip-on-demand. He could run faster, bench press more cheerleaders and had such sublime
sense of timing that each expiatory report elicited a specifically desired range of response.
The rest of us were
left to merely embarrass ourselves. I did manage to raise my standing once purely by accident when, during a pause
in a particularly boring lecture, I loosed a prize-winning cattle call. Even my girlfriend laughed, and I was the
talk of the hallways between periods.
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