The Art of Fart

I face farting as a lost art rather than a normal biological function. I’m constantly trying to improve myself in this field, and my husband is my biggest supporter.

Sometimes I lean over and stare deep within his eyes, and he obviously thinks I’m about to kiss him, but he’s so wrong, because yeah, I’m farting. It’s super romantic. Usually he farts back with triple the power and we laugh and laugh. It never gets old. This is how I know I married the right guy.

(Though one time his fart was so powerful that I tasted it, and it was disgusting as fuck, like a mix of rotten eggs and whatever comes out of Kim Kardashian’s plastic surgeries.)

I threw up a little back then, but at the same time, I was really proud of him.

During my fart trainings, I often focus on swiftness, though I’ll also work on the smell over noise ratio. It really depends on the social situation and how badly concentrated the gas is.

I can also echo-fart, which is a fart so ninja that people will hear it from the opposite side of the room and blame it on the fat guy standing there, when the truth is, the fart came from where they’d least expect.

I did that to my husband once, and his mother was all like, “Ferdinand, I did not raise you so badly!” It was awesome.

(PS: His name is not Ferdinand. I changed it for anonymity reasons, Keith Lemon style.)

Anyway, husband has been trying to get me back for that to this day. Whether he succeeds remains to be seen.

Have you ever tried echo-farting?

A Poem and a few Haiku

Haiku #1

The fart echoed in the room

And the smell followed,

the smell of doom.

Tadaaaa!

Okay, okay, now a serious one:

Poem # 1 (This one is more in C.S’ neighborhood, so you know it will be boring.)

She wrote the letter with a single tear

It escaped her eye,

tracked down her cheeks,

landed on her chin and stood there

Like a stalactite

waiting to fall

Aaaaand back to the kickassery:

Haiku#2

Monday sucks. Is it weekend yet?

I wish it was.

Don’t you?

My Haikus are the best.

Jeremy’s Marvelous Junk

“Dude, how big is your penis?” Dave asked.

Jeremy stared at his friend, choking slightly with the pot-smoke going down his throat. “Dude! You can’t ask that to a bro!”

“Of course you can, come on.” Dave inhaled. “Bro to bro, man.”

Jeremy squinted at him. “Bro to bro?”

Dave exhaled a cloud of smoke. “It’s the code. A bro can request a view of his bro’s penis at any given time. I’m sure it’s written somewhere.”

After careful consideration, Jeremy shrugged. “All right, then. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

So Jeremy stood up and pulled down his pants.

The smoke stopped mid-way Dave’s throat and all he could mutter was, “You’re a freak of nature, bro.”

Jeremy chuckled as he zipped his pants. “That’s what she said,bro.” He gave Dave a high-five but his friend was flabbergasted and could barely move.

After a long while in silence, Dave said, “Bro.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m gay.”

Jeremy stared at Dave in silence. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Not the first time it happens, bro.”

 

 

Literally, You Guys

Kimmy said, “When I kissed Chad, I literally saw stars!”

And Sissi was all like, “Wait. You kissed him while looking up to the sky? How did you bend your head that way?”

And all the girls gawked at Sissi, ’cause she was such a party popper, that nerd.

So Kimmy rolled her eyes and said, “OMG, can you be more weird, Sissi?”

The girls nodded and said, “Totes.”

Sissi couldn’t quite understand what was going on. “It’s not about being weird, you guys! It’s literally about the overuse of the word ‘literally’.”

Kimmy swooshed her long blond tresses as it they were a whip, and said in the most blasé of ways, “I literally can’t even, Sissi. Let’s go, girls.”

And that’s how Sissi got banned from the cheerleading squad.

She later married the guy who invented Google. Figuratively speaking. Because he must be like a thousand-year-old, you guys.