NEW! Pull My Finger!
Okay, it happened.
Just once, I swear.
My girlfriend and I were watching “The Pink Panther.” I had my recording equipment ready, just in case a good fart came up.
Just at the point where Peter Sellers sucks the parrot up into the vacuum cleaner, I felt an enormous fart coming. I thought, “Jesus, this is a monster, I better not miss it.”
I rushed into the studio and slammed the door behind me. I hit the mute button on my mixer (it had been muted) and saw the levels rise with my every move.
I clicked “Record.”
And waited.
Nothing.
No fart.
Suddenly, I didn’t have to fart anymore.
I had stopped everything, leaving my girlfriend alone on the couch, asking where I was going. Plus, I was missing the movie.
And I was still recording. Every move registered on the LED display on the mixer. I had perfected the art of recording a fart, and it was about time I got a real whopper.
So I pushed.
Nothing.
I could hear my girlfriend in the next room laughing at some inane Peter Sellers scene.
I was missing it.
I pushed again.
Nothing.
My girl’s laughter registered on the mixer.
I wasn’t missing out on the movie and my girl’s warm embrace for nothing, so…
I pushed…
And pushed…
And puuuuuushed…
!!!
It came out in one solid piece, bouncing off my underwear and bumping against my buttocks. It took a moment to register, but the smell brought it all home.
Then the squishy feeling in my bottom.
Then the smell again.
I had pooped my pants.
I stood motionless for a few seconds.
My girlfriend laughed again, and I thought for a second she was laughing at me.
But no, she was still watching the movie. I had closed the studio door. She didn’t see me poop my pants.
So, I grabbed the most recent copy of Wired and slipped it up into my shorts. As I slid out of my clothing the poop landed on the magazine. I then cleaned myself with the pages of an old copy of Mad magazine, which has much softer newsprint.
I was cursing this website the whole time. Who ever heard of recording his own farts for a website?
Crazy, I thought. I must be crazy.
I wrapped up the magazines and shorts and threw the whole thing into a briefcase, which I then packed in a cardboard box, which I then wrapped in an old afghan and threw in the bottom of the closet.
When I came out, I covered myself with a book, pretending I was ready for love, and my girlfriend laughed at something on screen.
One day I’ll remember to throw away that box.
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