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Blossoms from the Fart Garden
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This is my place for Uninsightful Adolescent Ramblings. If anyone actually finds it, reads it, and heaven forbid, makes a comment on it, I'll be very surprised.
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| Finding Enlightenment in the Most Unlikely Place |
May 6, 2008 8:03 pm
Mood: Shitty, 1086 Views | The year was 1999. The turn of the millennium was just around the corner and the world seemed swollen in anticipation of some mysterious eruption. Little did I know, on that beautiful fall day, that I was due for a major eruption of my own.
As the late afternoon rumbles of hunger awakened my animal desire for food, it was decided that I would get some exercise and walk the fifteen blocks to AZTECA, the newest Mexican Restaurant in town. The Mexican invasion had recently hit Wisconsin full tilt, with one of the more positive side effects being the Tex-Mex restaurants that popped up in every strip mall. I tied my shoes and headed toward my greasy destination.
"Hot plate! Hot plate!" cautioned the waiter as he slid the steaming dish to it's place next to the empty basket that once held chips but now cradled only a crumpled sheet of grease-spotted wax paper. As I hastily doused my chicken chimichanga with what remained of the tiny bowl of salsa, I wondered to myself if "Hot plate!" was the first phrase taught to illegal Mexican immigrants after their nighttime baptism in the Rio Grande.
Having finished my dinner and finding myself sufficiently stuffed, I started the long journey home, hoping to burn off some of the recently ingested Mexican fuel. Six blocks into my hike, I felt a familiar and unfriendly twinge of pain in my lower abdomen. The cool breeze that augmented this near-perfect evening made me acutely aware of the beads of sweat on my upper lip and brow. As the caged beast in my gut began to stir, readying for its violent escape, I quickly took stock of the situation.
I needed to find refuge and find it fast. I was deep in the heart of a residential neighborhood and at least eight blocks from the dream of my own toilet.
"Just knock on a door," thought my frightened cerebrum. But what would I say? "Hi, I know we haven't met but my name is Al and I really need to take a mad shit. Do you mind if I paint your toilet brown?"
I decided to try and make it home. I was running out of time. I quickly sped up my pace and waddled ahead like a scalded penguin, pinching my butt cheeks for dear life.
The giggles and jeers from the neighborhood children faded behind me as I pulled away. I was doing all right, shuddering with the rhythmic ebb and flow of abdominal cramps. The contractions were becoming more frequent. Only four blocks to go.
The sun was nearly gone and the earth was in the final throes of dusk. I was almost to the entrance of Brown Cab Co, Inc, which is marked by a lighted sign surrounded by several bushes and clumps of tall elephant grass. It was then that the mother of all poop-cramps grabbed me by the back of the neck and demanded submission. "Yes, Master," I said as I shuffled into the delicate landscaping and yanked down my shorts.
click to enlarge
The caustic flow came so fast and so ferociously that I feared that I had not dropped my pants in time. The power of the warm soft blast nearly pushed me forward from my crouched position. RELIEF! God, it felt good. I crouched there with my elbows on my knees, able to breath for the first time in several anxious minutes. A cool chill raced up my spine. I felt the glow of a job well done, the timeless relief of a powerful bowel movement. I had transcended. I had communed with my ancestors. It must have felt much the same eons ago as my prehistoric ancestor ran through the forest clutching his spear and noticed that familiar twinge of pain.
I looked to my right and saw the silhouette of a woman and two children. Headlights! I quickly realized that my shiny white ass was hanging out of the bushes, reflecting in all its glory for every passerby that drove the busy street just ten feet away.
I quickly pushed my way deeper in the bushes and away from the blast zone. I skinned off one sock and then the other. It was a two-socker. I left my socks just feet away from my beastly deposit as a gift for the Mexican landscaper who would tend the area the next day. Fitting revenge for the meal his countryman had served me.
I floated home on rubbery legs, breathing the cool evening air. Something had happened to me there next to that clump of elephant grass. I was transformed. Right there in the bright headlights, I had touched something that transcends time and space.
I shit, therefore I am. | |
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5 Comments | |
| A Private Meal With Some Private Problems |
May 5, 2008 11:27 pm
Mood: Shitty, 1204 Views | One of my parents' friends was a cook at a local Chinese restaurant. And man, could he cook some mean meals. One fateful day, as a bit of a 'surprise' for us -- well, for me, at least -- he came to the house and cooked for us. Amazing things came out of our kitchen: sweet and sour chicken balls, wontons, that black bean stuff... all delicious to the utmost. And near the end of what had to be his best dish yet, he came out with four tiny little bowls, each barely big enough to fit more than a large gulp. The aroma that came out of them was heavenly.
What was this beautiful concoction? Bok choy soup. It tasted as good as it smelled. So I went for seconds, and then thirds. And then, luckily, I was full.
A couple of hours passed, and it began to feel like someone had stuck one of those long balloons into my gut and was inflating it in my bowels -- and not very slowly, either. It went from discomforting to painful to downright agonizing, accompanied by some of the sickest-sounding bowel thunder I had ever had. I knew something was up, but I wasn't too entirely sure what, for I was young and still new to the whole idea of bowel disasters.
Bok choy soup, as I discovered, is known for its devastating effects on one's bowels. No ramming of the southern gates, no battering of the hatches, nothing. All it took was a single, little cough.
In about half a second flat, I was up off that couch, one hand clutching my butt in an attempt to hold back the mudslide. I made it to the bathroom, no waiting; but in my haste to sit on the toilet, I sat too far back.
click to enlarge
Having not quite yet hit my teenage growth spurt, I was considerably shorter than most kids my age; and, well, my bunghole was pressed flat against the back of the seat, with my cheeks pinched together to make a perfect little barrier, meaning there was only one way for the matter to escape: backwards.
What followed was a cat-ass-trophe.
It sprayed backwards, all over the tank's base, and down around the bowl's exterior. It was powerful enough to force my cheeks apart like the Red Sea, which meant that at least some of the torrent was unleashed into the porcelain lake. But as to the rest, it was on my back, on the bowl, on the seat, on the tank, and on the floor; some splatter was even on the side of the tub, a good eight inches from the can.
Bowl of bok choy soup: three dollars.
Roll of paper towel: two dollars.
Having to fess up to your parents you backed up the sewage line because of all the paper towel you used to clean up the explosion? Priceless. | |
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8 Comments | |
| Funny Pranks -- Liquid Ass |
May 4, 2008 10:56 pm
Mood: Odiferous, 1157 Views | The options for revenge open to a sane and relatively moral individual (such as myself) are rather limited. I had horrendous managers at a past place of work, as I'm sure do many other sane and relatively moral individuals. How to get back at them without inflicting bodily harm or landing myself in the clink was a conundrum. Then Liquid Ass popped into my life.
Liquid Ass can be purchased at LiquidAss dott bomb.
click to enlarge
It comes in a little bottle that is easily concealed in your hand. When the lid is unscrewed and a small amount is sprayed, the stench is unbelievable -- and to some, unendurable. This was just what my managers needed. Operation Liquid Ass was now in effect.
I took the bottle into work and showed it to my buddy. We couldn't wait until the right opportunity to unleash our little bottle of olfactory revenge. Our first foray into Operation Liquid Ass was relatively minor when compared to subsequent applications, but since it was the first, it must be elucidated.
I took the little bottle, and, when no one was around, sprayed down what we call manager row -- the row of individual cubicles that house the managers of our department. It didn't take long for comments to start filtering down to our ears. Things like, "What the hell is that smell??" and "Hey, it smells better in the bathroom that it does out here!" and "It smells like something crawled up in somebody's ass and died." It was hard to suppress our laughter, which had to be strictly controlled; so my buddy and I made a couple of trips outside to let our laughter roll. We didn't stay out there long because we didn't want to miss any of the fun. In order to add to the confusion as to the source of the smell in the department, we started going around discussing it with our co-workers.
Everybody had a theory as to the origin of this abominable odor, but the beauty of Liquid Ass is that it is untraceable. It does eventually wear off, usually in a couple of hours, barring another application. It leaves no mark when sprayed. The smell does not match any smell that is known to man. It doesn't smell like the bodily fluids (or solids) that emanate from every person's nether regions. It doesn't smell like the odor produced by unwashed armpits. It doesn't smell like rotting foodstuffs of any kind. It only takes a little bit of the stuff to produce an enormous odor. And its absolute untraceability provided my buddy and me with complete anonymity and a lot of "job satisfaction."
If you have ever had the misfortune to smell toe-jam produced by an old bricklayer with ingrown toenails, or a mountain of roadkill that's been rotting in the sun for several days, then you may have an inkling as to what Liquid Ass smells like. It is sheer genius and is the stuff of dreams -- our dreams of revenge came to fruition right before our noses. | |
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2 Comments | |
| OUCH! |
May 4, 2008 6:47 pm
Mood: OUCH!, 952 Views | 
click to enlarge
OUCH! | |
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8 Comments | |
| Revenge is Sweet |
May 4, 2008 6:29 pm
Mood: Gaseous, 892 Views | There once was an old couple who had been married for thirty years.
Every morning the old boy would wake up and give off an enormous fart, much to his long suffering wife's annoyance.
"You'll fart your guts out one of these days," she always complained.
After a particularly bad week the wife decided to have her revenge and got up early, placing some turkey giblets in the bed next to the old boy's arse.
While making breakfast downstairs she heard his usual morning fart reverberate through the floorboards followed by a scream.
Twenty minutes later a rather shaken man came downstairs.
"You was right all along Missus," the old man says, "I finally did fart my guts out, but by the grace of God, and these two fingers, I managed to push 'em back in!"
click to enlarge
Post your favorite "Fart Joke" below. | |
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7 Comments | |
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| CONTEST: Name That Pooper |
May 4, 2008 3:39 pm
Mood: Poopy, 791 Views |  | At a moment when humanity's religious and cultural conflicts push us towards the brink, the time has come for this organization to stand up and remind us that our divisions are arbitrary. We are all one, because we all answer to a higher power -- poop.
The funniest entry will win a bottle of Sphincterine -- the breath-mint for your ass!
The pleasure and pain of our daily struggle transcends all our schisms and squabbles. Identical brown demons torment every single human being; the triumph of man over ass-beast is the universal language.
One world, under poop: this is our map to utopia. And to start us down that glorious road, I present this Contest.
The goal: come up with punny names that remind us that every person who has ever been famous, for any reason, is, at heart, above all, a pooper.
A couple of examples to get your brain working in the right direction:
C. Everett Poop
Englesquirt Dumperstink
Post your entry below, and voting will be used with the "I agree" button. Vote for your favorites. GOOD LUCK! |
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28 Comments | |
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| - Perils Of The Nude Beach - |
May 3, 2008 2:40 pm
Mood: Whoah, 784 Views |  | <--- Click the pic (it's a shocker.)
A man and his wife are on a nude beach. They are just sunning there,
when all of a sudden a bee flies up into the woman's vagina. Her
husband quickly scoops her up, tosses her into the car, and heads for
the hospital.
The doctor calmly tells the couple, "My prongs are not long enough so
I cannot reach the bee, but I have a better idea. Why don't you put
some honey on the end of your penis, and when the bee lands on it,
pull out and we'll kill it."
The husband agrees, so they go to another
room.
As they begin to try, the husband becomes so nervous that he can't get
it up. The couple yells for the doctor to come in. The doctor enters,
and they tell him their problem.
"You know, if she gets stung it could be fatal, so this is very dangerous.
Why don't you let me try?" The couple agrees.
So the doctor puts some honey on his penis and puts it inside the
woman. He pulls it out and looks...no bee. He puts it in again... pulls it out and again...no bee. He starts pumping slowly, and then he increases his pace.
Faster and faster, harder and harder, until he's finally vigorously
thrusting in and out.
"What the fuck are you doing?" yells the husband.
"Change of plans," says the doctor, "I'm gonna drown
the little bastard!" |
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6 Comments | |
| What's Your Flavor? |
May 3, 2008 2:23 pm
Mood: Giggly, 730 Views |  | Chocolate, Vanilla or Strawberry for you?
I was in an ice cream parlor today and a lady ordered a scoop of chocolate ice cream. The proprietor quickly responded, "I'm sorry ma'am, but we're all out of chocolate."
The lady looks confused and gazed down at the ice cream case and then looked back up at the man and asked, "May I have a pint of chocolate?"
The man replied, a little annoyed, "I'm sorry but, once again, we are all out of chocolate ice cream."
The lady then seemed to get the point and walked up to the end of counter, and asked, "Excuse me sir?" "Can I get a gallon of chocolate?"
At this point the owner becomes upset, "Ma'am. Can you do me a favor please?"
"OK," The woman replied.
"Can you spell the 'straw' in strawberry?"
"Sure. S T R A W."
"Very good ma'am," the owner said gently, "Now can you spell the 'Van' in Vanilla?"
"Yes. V A N," The lady said confidently.
"Very good, now can you spell the 'Fuck' in chocolate?" asked the owner smartly.
The lady looked up at the ceiling in thought, then replied, "There ain't no 'Fuck' in chocolate."
"That's what I have been trying to tell you for 20 minutes!" screamed the owner. |
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10 Comments | |
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| July 4th Cookout Goes Awry |
May 2, 2008 10:04 pm
Mood: Shitty, 750 Views | It was July 4th, 1991. All of us in the band (those of you that follow this blog know I played in a rock band for 22 years,) had made plans to picnic at a local state park with our girlfriends or wives. Early in the morning, we met at Myakka State Park in Florida to cookout and party for a day. After we got there, a few of us decided to take the hiking trails. The hike is about three miles around -- challenging enough. We hadn't walked fifty feet from the picnic area before my stomach told me it was time to vomit.
"Go ahead," I told my companions. "I'll catch up in a second."
At that point in my life, I had made a habit of mixing a couple of egg whites with some oranges, carrots and other healthy things in the juicer and drinking it as part of my breakfast. It's a quick and easy way to consume protein... and so I passionately wretched out this quick-and-easy protein.
I wiped the corner of my mouth, swished some water, put a piece of gum in my mouth, and jogged to join the gang. I felt somewhat better than I did just a few moments ago, so I decided I could make it the rest of the way, no problem.
About halfway out the hiking trail, I felt the infamous rumbling in my stomach. "Just a little gas," I thought to myself. But I was hesitant to expel any for fear of sharting (Definition Shart: Chancing a fart and actually shitting.)
I decided to chance a fart anyway. It burned both my butthole and my nostrils. To my relief, though, it was just air.
Rare are the times when I am offended by my own putrid stench. This was one of those times.
The aroma was instantly evident to the rest of the gang as well. "I beg your pardon," I explained. "It won't happen again."
We arrived at a stop to watch the alligators and take a rest, where we briefly rested and had a bite to eat. Our appetites were lost after I defiled the fresh air once again. The cramping in my gut was almost unbearable. The pain was my bowels telling me it was time to go find relief.
click to enlarge
About a half-mile down the trail there was a rumble, a sharp pain, and what felt like a bubble of air trying to escape. To my dismay, it was not air, but liquid-hot diarrhea. As soon as I realized this, I surprised my fellow hikers by immediately dropping my shorts to my ankles and assuming a crab-walk pose (face-up, with my hands and feet holding my butt off the ground). They did not ask what I was doing, because it was obvious. Explosive bursts of magma hot waste splattered against the rock I was straddling. I could feel wet drops on my calves and forearms.
Groaning, I stood and removed my shorts from my ankles. I had no toilet paper, so I wiped as well as I could with my socks. I left my socks and my underwear soaked with crap on the trail. I used the last of my drinking water to rinse the drops of brown from my legs and arms.
Just as I was cleaned up enough to continue hiking, the second wave of eruptions began. I knew there was no holding it back. This time, though, I had time to remove my shorts all the way, and squat in a proper poop-in-the-woods posture.
The only thing I had left to wipe with was my Aerosmith -- Get Your Wings t-shirt. It, too, was sacrificed.
By now, the rest of the gang were teary-eyed with laugher. I literally thought I was going to die, and we still had over a mile to hike. I had no water and nothing in my stomach for fuel. I could barely move my legs. I don't think I have ever been so miserable in my life, and hope I never am again.
What a way to Celebrate the 4th of July. My own Fireworks.... | |
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11 Comments | |
| If You Have A Healthy Anus, Be Thankful... |
May 1, 2008 7:55 pm
Mood: Shitty, 778 Views | When I was 19, I wound up developing a hemorrhoid from the excess pressure against my pelvic muscle floor.
The last one I'd had gradually went away on its own. This time, no such luck; not only did it not go away, it got bigger. It was huge. And painful. It was like having an extra testicle, in the wrong place.
I hooked up with a local surgeon. He poked and prodded in his pre-consultation and announced that he could take care of it right then and there.
"Do I get anesthetic?"
"Sure. But I'll warn you: the injection is going to hurt."
"How much?"
"A lot. You won't want to be my friend anymore."
He actually said that.
"I'd rather not be awake, then."
"We can do that, too --" he looked at his calendar "tomorrow!"
When you check in and prepare for surgery, they make a habit of asking you the same questions over and over and over again, just to see if you change your answers. It's all part of mitigating their risk. Assuming you confirm fourteen consecutive times that yes, you're having your right arm amputated, and no, you haven't had anything to eat that morning, you're less likely to suddenly remember it was supposed to be your left and that there was that splendid omelet on the way in.
So by the time they put my IV in and put me in my little rolling bed, I'd already had to confirm three times, "Yes, I'm here for... uh... a hmrd."
"Sorry? I didn't hear you..."
"I said, 'a hemorrhoid.'"
I tried to keep my voice down, because there were other patients in other pre-op bays and my God, what would they think? But my anesthesiologist had put something in my IV though to relax me, so by the time they got to sixth or seventh confirmation, my response was more along the lines, "WHY YES, I HAVE A GIANT HEMORRHOID! WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE IT!?"
The surgery was uneventful. One second I'm staring at the faceted lights in the O.R. and then, like blinking, I'm looking at the ceiling in Recovery.
The surgeon told me that he didn't just take care of that one big one, he also took care of a few more inside that might some day have caused problems. I pictured the inside of my rectum looking like Frankenstein's, criss-crossed sutures going every direction.
He gave me three prescriptions. "The first is a stool softener. Take two every day. You'll need it. The second is percoset, for the pain. The third is lorazepam, for the anxiety."
"I don't have anxiety."
"You will."
This caused me some anxiety.
"See, some people worry about their first post-surgical bowel movement because it can sometimes be painful. But if you take your stool softeners and a good dose of percoset and lorazepam an hour before you go, everything should be fine in the end. Haha, see that? I made a joke."
I went home.
Not that you asked (but you are reading this story, so you deserve what you get), but I generally poop every morning after breakfast. It usually sort of sneaks up on me and all of a sudden it's like, "Hi there! Let's go NOW!"
I skipped breakfast that morning because of the anxiety. So I wasn't really ready with the painkillers. The best I could do was down a couple of percosets on the way in.
I stripped down completely cuz... well, ye'never know how you might have to contort, or whatever.
I sat down and tried to read an Onion article, but I knew this wasn't really going to be a sufficient distraction. So I bore down and cut loose.
Right about there is when the shrieking started. Thank God no one was home. The dogs ran off to hide somewhere. It felt like getting a rectal massage from Edward Scissorhands. It felt like someone pulling ten feet of barbed wire out of my bunghole. It felt like an elephant trying to give birth to a picnic table.
click to enlarge
And that was just the first volley. Once you get started, there's no turning back, right?
I felt around for something I could squeeze to take my mind off it. All I could reach was that Onion, which ended its life sort of wadded up.
Round two arrived, accompanied by something that was half-wail and half-laughter. Honestly, there was absolutely nothing funny about the pain on a personal level; but from an objective viewpoint, how do you not laugh at a naked, shrieking man flailing on the toilet?
By this point I was sweating profusely and feeling vaguely nauseous.
Fortunately, the pain largely subsided. It still hurt, but only in a vague, distant way as I finished the job.
I was not ready for the sight in the bowl.
I've seen dookie. I've seen blood. But nobody was ever meant to see that much dookie and that much blood all in the same place.
If I'd had the foresight, I'd have taken a picture to really give those guys at RateMyPoo com something to talk about.
Instead, I cleaned up and went to lie down on the bed to whimper for a while. | |
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