Ever fart and then think you should apologize to God for it?
I had Taco Bell and pepperoni pizza from Round Table on back-to-back nights about a week and a half ago and I was blowing the sort of ass that was outlawed in the fourth Geneva Convention in 1949.
Fat Bastard said “We all love our own brand, don’t we?”, but I have discovered the exception to this rule.
It takes a potent combination of fuels and a reacting chamber as prolific as my colon, but I have incontrovertible proof that it is possible to not only offend one’s own self but in fact to actually make oneself sick.
These were not pre-dump gas, either; not the kind of farts that have to elbow their way up to the front of the line past whatever you ate yesterday before they can escape. These were not turds honking for the right-of-way on Route 86. These were the purest essence of the blackest evil, baked in Hell itself then vaporized for rapid dispersal. Like some twisted version of Athena they sprung fully formed from my nethers, girded for battle.
Somewhere between thinking “Wow, that was a loud one” and waking up on the floor of my shower with the taste of a hundred homeless people dancing on my tongue I realized that my ass had declared war on me.
What followed was a day full of uncomfortable shifting as I tried to avoid dragging my officemate into the conflict, interspersed with trips outside to “stretch my legs” and participate in the wholesale slaughter of local fauna. Texas sent over a proposal in the afternoon regarding joining their penal system, but I had to graciously decline as I am opposed to any form of state execution that involves inflicting pain and physical suffering. By that evening the local news was reporting that the day had unexpectedly been declared a “Spare the Air Day” and was advising citizens not to breathe. That night I dreamed of working in an exploding manure plant populated by African bullfrogs and Barry White.
I have since struck back. I am reading “The Art of Ass War” by the Chinese philosopher Shi Tzu for inspiration, but it is actually Napoleon’s penchant for fighting war on multiple fronts that has directed my action. A steady diet of high fiber foods has denied my booty the chance to reload and re-supply while in the meantime I have switched from Charmin Ultra to 80-grit sandpaper. I have also made it clear to my anus that I am willing to get sent to prison if the battle escalates further, so things have subsided into a sort of cold war and talks are ongoing. Right now my kidneys are skirmishing with my prostate, but really this is just a regional conflict-by-proxy as my bowels and I jockey for influence.
Pray for peace.