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Presidential Farts
What did President Bush have for lunch?
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Eat At Sherrill's
The Bus Ride
A guy got on a bus one day and sat in the aisle seat beside an
elderly lady. A few minutes later, he couldn't control himself
and let loose a big noisy fart.
Embarrassed, he tried to make conversation with the lady and
asked her "Do you by any chance have today's paper?"
The lady looked at him and said, "No, but the next time we pass
by a tree I'll grab you a handful of leaves."
A Fart Poem
A fart can be quiet,
A fart can be loud,
Some leave a powerful,
Poisonous cloud.
A fart can be short,
Or a fart can be long,
Some farts have been known,
To sound just like a song.
Some farts do not smell,
While others are vile,
A fart may pass quickly,
Or linger awhile.
A fart can create
A most-curious medley,
A fart can be harmless,
Or silent, but deadly.
A fart can occur
In a number of places,
And leave everyone
With strange looks on their faces.
From wide-open prairies,
To small elevators,
A fart will find all of us
Sooner or later.
So be not afraid
Of the invisible gas,
For always remember,
That farts, too, shall pass.
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Fart One Liners
What is the sharpest thing in the world?
A Fart. It goes through your pants and doesn't even leave a
hole.
What happened to the blind skunk?
He fell in love with a fart.
What do you get if you eat beans and onions?
Tear Gas.
Why don't little girls fart?
Because they don't have assholes until they're married.
The Christmas Tree Fart
An Avon lady got on an empty elevator and exploded a smelly
fart. “What am I going to do now?'' she thought. She pulled a
can of pine-scented air freshener out of her bag of samples and
sprayed it all around her.” The door to the elevator opened and
a rather inebriated man gets on. The door closes and suddenly he
gets a whiff and exclaims, “Smells like somebody shit on the
Christmas tree"
Japanese Fart
A young Japanese girl had been taught all her life that when
she married, she was to please her husband and never upset him.
So the first morning of her honeymoon, the young Japanese bride
crawled out of bed after making love, stooped down to pick up
her husband's clothes, and accidentally let out a big fart. She
looked up and said: "Aww So sorry...excuse please, front hole so
happy back hole laugh out loud."
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Bed Football
An old man was in bed with his wife when suddenly he let out
a loud fart. He yelled, "7 points!"
His wife looked at him and said, "What the hell are you doing?"
He simply replied, "Just playing bed football."
Ten minutes later the wife let a loud one and said, "Tie game -
7-7."
The husband's competitive side kicked in and he started
straining, when suddenly he crapped his pants! His wife looked
over and said, "Now what's the score?"
He said, "Still 7-7. End of quarter! Switch sides!!!"
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New Year's Resolutions for Farters
I will not FART in elevators
When I feel the urge to FART I will hold my cheeks together,
cough and let the FART out quietly
When I think I am FARTING and crap in my pants by mistake, I
will not shout "Oh Shit"
I won't ask my date "Was that you?"
I will not eat baked beans before we go to a movie
Please send me YOUR Fart Resolutions -
Farters@TheFartMachine.com
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'Twas the Night Before Christmas
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the
house,
Everyone was farting, even the mouse.
We had just finished eating turkey, beans and pie,
When the farts started popping, like firecrackers in July.
We watched the TV and drank some more beer,
And farted some more, but no one could hear.
Then up on the rooftop who should appear,
But good Old St. Nick sticking out his rear.
He farted to the North Pole, he farted to the South.
It smelled so bad, I had to cover my mouth.
I heard one more blast as he took off like a dart,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good Fart!"
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VOTE FOR MY FART!
Two politicians were running for Congress, but instead of having
a debate, they decided to have a farting contest and let the
people vote for who had the best fart.
The first politician got on stage, dropped his draws, and let
out huge fart. A banner then dropped down from the stage with
his campaign slogan, "Vote with your heart - Vote for my fart!"
Not to be outdone, the other mooned the audience and let out the
loudest, longest fart. A flag then popped out of his ass saying,
"Send this great farter to Washington"
The contest was summed up by one political analyst, who said,
"This is nothing new. This was the same as the other debates -
lots of noise and hot air leaving the audience with a bad smell.
What it all boils down to is two old farts making asses of
themselves."
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More Fart One-Liners
What's the definition of bravery?
A man with diarrhea chancing a fart!
Confucius say ....
That those who constantly belch after eating have mouth that is
likened to asshole with teeth.
What would you call a man with an IQ of 160 who has an anal
fetish?
A smartfeller or a fartsmeller?
What's invisible and smells like carrots?
Easter Bunny farts
How can you tell if a woman is wearing pantyhose?
If she farts, her ankles swell
Why do farts smell?
So deaf people can appreciate them too!
Why do Irishmen only put 239 beans in their chili?
Because one more would make it too faaarty!
Confucius say, "Man who fart in church sit in own pew."
"Darling," says a husband coyly to his wife, "let's swap
positions tonight." "What a good idea," she replies. "You stand
in front of the sink and do the dishes and I'll sit in front of
the TV and fart."
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The President and the Queen
While representing the U.S. on a formal visit to England,
President Bush joins Queen Elizabeth II in an ornate
17th-century style coach, which is hitched to a team of huge
white horses. The coach proceeds through the streets of London
en route to Buckingham Palace, as the Queen and the President
wave to the cheering throngs gathered at the roadside. All is
going well, until one of the horses on the Queen’s side of the
coach produces an earth-shattering fart that shakes the whole
vehicle and creates a most uncomfortable situation. The
President and the Queen try to act as if nothing happened, but
the Queen feels like she should apologize for the horse’s rude
behavior and says, "Mr. President, please accept my regrets.
There are certain things that are outside the realm of a Queen’s
control." President Bush replies, "Your Majesty, please don't
give it another thought. After all, if you hadn't said
something, I would have thought it was one of the horses."
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You can fart anytime, at will, even in public.
You can fart alone, just as enjoyably as with a significant
other.
You don't need to shower before farting.
You can almost always have multiple farts.
You can share a good fart with a whole roomful of people
without having to actually touch any of them.
A guy can fart, and be ready to fart again immediately.
A girl can't fake a fart.
You can't get pregnant from farting.
There's no need to wait for a guy to get an erection before
he can fart.
After you fart, your girlfriend is not likely to ask:"You
mean, that's IT?!"
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Perfume Joke
An old woman is riding the elevator in a very lavish New York
City office building.
A young and beautiful woman gets into the elevator and, smelling
like expensive perfume, turns to the old woman and says
arrogantly, "Giorgio Beverly Hills, $100 an ounce!"
The next young and beautiful woman gets on the elevator and also
very arrogantly turns to the old woman and says, "Chanel No. 5,
$150 an ounce!"
About three floors later, the old woman has reached her
destination and is about to get off the elevator. Before she
leaves, she looks both beautiful women in the eye, bends over,
and farts....... "Broccoli - 49 cents a pound!!!"
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There was once a very prim and proper older lady who had a
problem with passing gas. Since she came from a generation when
people didn't even talk about this kind of problem it took a
long time for her to seek help. Finally, however, she was
persuaded to consult her family doctor.
After she filled out all the proper forms and had waited
about 20 minutes in the waiting room the doctor called her into
his office, leaned back in his chair, folded his hands into a
steeple and asked her how he could help.
"Doctor," she said, "I have a very bad gas problem."
"A gas problem?" replied the doctor.
"Yes. Yesterday afternoon, I had lunch with the Secretary of
State and his wife and had six, um, er, ahhh...silent gas
emissions. Last night, I had dinner with the governor and his
wife and had (BLUSH) four silent gas emissions. Then, while
sitting in your waiting room I had five silent gas emissions!
Doctor, you've got to help me! What can we do?"
"Well," said the doctor thoughtfully, "I think the first
thing we're going to do is give you a hearing test."
The
Fart Family On Election Day
A Big Thanks From The Farts
So, I hope Halloween was good for you. For once, it was quiet
around here, and not too much happened with The Fart Family,
which will heretofore be known as The Farts. Well, it seemed
that quietness didn’t last very long, as all hell erupted a few
days later on Election Day. Uncle Al was almost arrested, and
probably the only thing stopping the police from putting him in
jail was the fact that somebody would have to clean out the cell
after Uncle Al was released. That alone would be equal to the
labors of Hercules.
We all went to vote at the same time, and that’s always a signal
for trouble. First of all, my father put a Remote Control Fart
Machine behind the chair of an elderly gentleman who was taking
down the names of voters, and when he touched it off, I thought
the man’s face was going to explode, he turned so red. People
waiting on line to vote started holding their noses, the saps.
Talk about mind over matter. When my father retrieved the fart
machine speaker unit from behind the older guy’s chair, he
looked like he wanted to kill my father. But what the hey, no
harm was done. Yet.
After we had all voted, Uncle Al, who now lives near us ( what a
joy that is) parted the curtain and took his turn. He wasn’t in
there three seconds before he started cursing. Seems like he was
used to the old voting booths, where you pulled down levers and
at the end pulled the handle that opened the curtain and at the
same time recorded your selections. Of course, he was half
sloshed like he always is, and couldn’t figure out the new
electronic buttons. In frustration, he started punching the
voting machine while bellowing out a string of curses that could
be heard halfway down the street. But this was just the calm
before the storm.
As the workers at the voting site called for help, Uncle Al let
out one of the loudest farts ever recorded. Like I’ve said
before, human beings should be incapable of making such a sound,
but then again, we’re talking about Uncle Al. Everybody waiting
on line couldn’t believe it, until that fetid smell started
emanating out from behind the curtain. Those closest to the
voting booth started to gag, and pushed back against those
behind them in an effort to get some fresh air. Then, Uncle Al
started to emerge out from behind the curtain, only he couldn’t
find the opening, and he began swinging his arms around like a
lunatic. Somehow, he tore the curtain and got it wrapped around
his feet and down he went, knocking a woman over in the process.
Most unfortunately for this lady, she fell with her face only a
few inches from Uncle Al’s rear end as he thrashed around on the
floor, laying on his side and still tangled up in the curtain. I
don’t believe I have to explain what happened next. The woman
passed out after Uncle Al’s next long ripper, which got her
right in the face from close proximity, and the last we saw she
was being rushed off in an ambulance with an oxygen mask
covering her nose and mouth.
Of course, my mother and father thought this whole thing was
hilarious, and as the cops cleared the room, they made sure to
get Uncle Al out into the open air where any future farts would
be somewhat dissipated. My father wanted to plant the fart
machine on one of the cops, but my mother at least had the sense
to talk him out of it. Uncle Al finally calmed down, and they
let him go, probably for the aforementioned reasons.
So now we’re quickly coming up on Thanksgiving, and we should
all stop and give thanks for all that we have. But I need not
say what effect a load of turkey does to the gastrointestinal
system, and I’m not looking forward to it. Anyway, here’s hoping
you all have a good one, and KEEP ON FARTIN’!
Happy Farter's Day
From the Fart Family to You, happy Farter’s Day, and many happy
returns! These returns usually come when a fair amount of beans,
broccoli, or cabbage has been consumed, but with some people it
just comes naturally. Take my father (or, in this case, farter).
With him and his brother, the infamous Uncle Al, farting is a
way of life and something to be done no matter where they are or
in whose company they’re in, and to hold back on a fart is to
bring shame to the family. What a bunch of slobs!
Anyway, the question is what to buy dear old dad for Farter’s
Day. God knows he’s got enough Remote Control Fart Machines, but
he may need some back-ups. Many people now have a large screen
TV with Surround Sound in their living rooms, and we have the
big screen here, but the Surround Sound is quite a bit different
than the norm. It’s more like Surround Smell. You see, instead
of speakers around four corners of the room, my father has four
fart machines placed in strategic locations, and he can then
work them off the one remote. Try watching a movie when all four
of these gadgets are going off at once. But the worst thing is
the real thing - the real farts that take place in our living
room, which is in the middle of the house with no outside
windows. No air conditioner ever created could rid the air of
that stench. So if you want to watch a movie in the Fart Family
living room, better bring a gas mask, and I mean that literally.
Last Farter’s Day was a complete embarrassment, if you happen to
be reasonably sane. A few weeks before, this young couple moved
into the house next to ours, really nice people So, being
good neighbors, we invited them over for dinner last Farter’s
Day, and they had the misfortune of meeting Uncle Al, who had
been drinking all day and pining away for his lost love, that
one that I previously told you looked like a cross between a
hippopotamus and a baboon. He was almost incoherent when we sat
down to dinner, and surprisingly he wasn’t letting any farts,
but this was just the calm before the storm. Laughing like a
loon, my father placed a huge bowl of canned beans right in
front of Uncle Al, who immediately came awake and started
gobbling them up. Too bad he didn’t know that my father had
laced the beans with Ex-Lax as a joke, though it may not have
stopped him anyway. And then it happened.
We were about halfway through the meal when my father engaged
the fart machine he had planted behind the chair of our
neighbor’s very attractive wife. As she turned all kinds of red,
Uncle Al started laughing so hard he suddenly had to loosen his
pants to let go a thunderous, wall-splitting fart that had been
building up all day. The result of the laced beans followed the
blast, and watery effluent sprayed all over the dining room
floor. My father was in hysterics, as the young couple bolted
from the house with their hands covering their mouths. It’s no
wonder that we haven’t seen them since. As for Uncle Al, he
simply resumed eating his food.
So, I don’t know what’s going to happen this year, but it can’t
be too much more embarrassing than last year. Or maybe I’m
wrong, because with this family anything’s possible when it
comes to grossness, and more Farter’s Day antics may be around
that could make the others pale in comparison!
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Easter Farrrrttts
Well, here we are again at Easter time. I’m not going to bore
you or disgust you further by reminiscing about past Easter
horrors, especially last year’s debacle. I’m hoping that this
year’s celebration will be a peaceful one, but it isn’t starting
out that way.
My mother bought my father a present, and yes, it’s another
Remote Control Fart Machine. Now he can "fart" in stereo if he
places the speakers in strategic locations. Believe me, if
there’s anybody who don’t need the fart machine it’s him; hell,
he manufactures his own gastric explosions. He and Uncle Al
could make millions if circuses ever had a Most Disgusting Human
exhibit. But on with the story.
We got started early this year on coloring the Easter eggs, and
the odor of vinegar permeated the house, until my father and
Uncle Al started eating the hard-boiled eggs. Then it was show
time. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, human beings
shouldn’t be capable of making such noises out of any bodily
opening. The smell was so bad that our neighbor came in and
thought we had a load of rotten eggs on the table. My father
asked her if she wanted an egg sandwich, and she almost barfed
right on the floor. Finally, with the windows open, the stench
started to dissipate, but then all those kids came in.
I’ve got to hand it to my father; even though he thinks farting
is one of society’s finest achievements, he is a generous guy.
There were about 5 million colored eggs on the table, and all
the kids were invited to chow down. Everyone was enjoying
themselves until that unmistakable sound came, but from under
the table! It was without a doubt the fart machine, but the kids
didn’t know that, and they all started to laugh and point at the
kid nearest the hidden speaker. All of a sudden this kid began
crying and denied that he was the one who let the bombay doors
open. Not wanting to cause the kid any further distress, my
father gave him a big chocolate bunny or something and all was
quiet but for only a short time.
By this time, Uncle Al had about 10 pounds of hard boiled eggs
in his gut. He let one go that sounded like a garbage truck
backfiring, and it even amazed the kids, who just stared in
horror. Then they got something to laugh about, as Uncle Al
finally got his comeuppance. It seems the aftershock from the
inhuman fart shook loose the kitchen shelf that was right over
his head, causing a box of Wheaties to open and fall on his bald
noggin. He was covered with brown flakes, and right behind the
cereal box was a bottle of pancake syrup that tipped over and
spilled its contents. The syrup seemed to solidify immediately,
and it looked like Uncle Al had been tarred and feathered! While
the kids screamed, Uncle Al jumped up and down and cursed as he
tried to get the sticky mess off his head. All of us were in
hysterics, and it was some time before he cleaned himself off
using a razor and some shaving cream.
Well, this should be a great Easter, but the only thing I’m
concerned about is the fact that we already had a good laugh,
and I hope that nothing too embarrassing happens. In any event,
HAPPY EASTER!
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It's a Fart Family Halloween
Happy Halloween everybody! May your day be filled with
thrills and chills, and if you’re smart (and/or very lucky),
you’ll stay far away from the Fart Family house. Actually,
Halloween is just like any other day around this household,
which is filled with witches, ghosts, ghouls, and goblins, along
with slobs, gluttons, and other disgusting personalities, for
365 days a year. I guess it would be a real shock if this family
acted like human beings on a day when you’re SUPPOSED to be out
of character.
In keeping with tradition, my father always dresses up like
Frankenstein’s monster, and calls himself "Frankenstein,"
because nobody has ever had the heart to tell him that the
particular name was for the doctor, not the monster. Last year,
he went so far as to rent a Frankenstein costume that had a slot
in the back that would hold the Remote Control Fart Machine. As
if he needed one! The proprietor of the costume shop later
complained because he had to fumigate the suit my father rented.
Seems like the real farts penetrated deep into the fabric and
caused "a horrific odor," in his words.
But that wasn’t the worst part of last year’s festivities. We
had our assortment of wolfmen, Draculas, mummies, etc., and good
ol’ Uncle Al won the contest for the most imaginative costume.
Truth was, he wasn’t dressed up at all. He had just finished
eating about 16 jelly donuts, and all that red stuff was caught
in a crust around his mouth. With his usual mottled complexion
that comes from an overworked digestive system, Uncle Al looked
like a bloated version of James Arness when he played "The
Thing" in the old 1950’s classic movie. Except that this "thing"
didn’t live on blood; it lived on candy apples and corn candy
and chocolate bars and about 10 gallons of beer.
Everything went along smoothly for awhile, with the children
coming to the door for trick-or-treat and seeing my father
acting like a lunatic in his costume. They even made faces when
he set off the fart machine, and some of them looked disgustedly
into their candy bags, hoping the (non-existent) smell wouldn’t
attach itself to the goodies inside. In the meantime, Uncle Al
was doing his best to get the most out of the buzz that
accompanies a chocolate rush and way too much beer. Then, about
an hour into the night, it happened. As their parents waited
outside on the curb, one group of very young children came to
the door. There were all kinds of kiddie costumes, and they were
very polite, even to "Frankenstein." But it was at this moment
that Uncle Al decided to let one go, and too bad he was standing
by the picture window. Just as the children were making their
way back down the driveway, Uncle Al blew such a huge fart that
he lost his balance and went right through the window. The fall
caught Uncle Al by surprise, and he rolled around on the ground
making gurgling noises as he tried to catch his breath. With all
that red jelly stuck to his mouth, he looked like a corpulent
ghoul thrashing around in full view of the kids and their
parents. The children started to scream and run, except for one
poor little tot, who had the misfortune to fall about five feet
from Uncle Al, who was now blasting away with the most
unmentionable farts ever as he tried to get back on his feet.
The yard took on the odor of a freshly-opened grave from all the
gastric emissions, and the kids’ parents fell back in disarray
from the horrible stench, grabbing their sons and daughters as
they retreated. Well, Uncle Al eventually got himself righted
again, and he went back into the house to gorge on more
Halloween candy. The child who had fallen in Uncle Al’s path was
almost comatose for awhile, but thankfully he recovered fully.
So did Uncle Al, who picked all the glass shards from the broken
window out of his butt and passed the incident off as being due
to faulty construction. So we look forward to Halloween 2003 and
welcome all those who dare to come to our door, though we know
one group of kids who won’t come within a half mile of this
house!
Have a good one!
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Labor Day Farts
First off, Happy Labor Day to all you loyal readers. These hot, sticky, sweltering, humid, disgusting days of
summer will soon be behind us, and we can look forward to getting down to
some good fall weather. Needless to say, you can only imagine
what hot, sticky, sweltering, humid, disgusting days are like in
the Fart Family house. Do you wonder why I welcome the fall?
Nope, Uncle Al still hasn’t come back from his hiatus to
wherever it is, but I can tell you, he’s left his mark. Last
Labor Day was a shining example of Uncle Al’s behavior in a
crowd of people, not the least of which is the remaining burnt,
browned-out patch of grass around the badminton court where
Uncle Al stood farting while trying to hit the birdie over the
net. My father actually had agricultural experts come and
examine the patch of grass to see if anything will ever grow on
it again, but it seems hopeless.
Labor Day started out pretty good, as we all stay around
outside the house eating potato salad and cole slaw and the
farts were able to somewhat dissipate in the open air. But then
some genius suggested that we all go into town to watch the
stupid Labor Day parade. Man, what a mistake! When we got there,
Main Street was packed to the gills with people who had
absolutely nothing else to do but stand there, yell at their
kids, drink beer, and see the fire trucks and police cars and
ambulances go by. I thought everything was going to be peaceful,
until I saw the members of the local equestrian team on their
fine mounts coming up the boulevard. A shudder passed through me
as I remembered the St. Patrick’s Day parade and the shambles
Uncle Al made of that event, with the puffed-up lady on the
reviewing stand winding up taking a nosedive into a pile of
fresh horse manure. With that in mind, I just knew something
outrageous was going to happen.
Don’t get me wrong - if Uncle Al has one saving grace, it’s that
he likes animals. But he just can’t resist seeing how large
animals like horses stand up to his ability to pass wind, and he
was loaded with enough beer and cole slaw cabbage to take on a
T-Rex. So here comes these riders bobbing along in their little
black helmets and their riding uniforms and that weird way they
have of riding that makes them look like they’re having sex with
an invisible partner. Uncle Al waited until the leftmost lead
horse was nearly abreast of him, then bent over and let out a
tremendous gastric explosion that immediately permeated the air
with a smell not unlike an overflowing sewer. The horses jumped
to their right, dislodging some of the riders and causing most
of the onlookers to laugh hysterically. The floozy who was with
Uncle Al, who looked like a beached whale and had a voice like a
foghorn, tried to grab the reins of the horse closest to her in
an attempt to calm the beast. But the horse took one look at her
and almost keeled over. Can’t blame the horse, she would have
scared the hell out of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. The
woman riding this particular horse was wearing dark colored
riding pants, and she was so fat that it was hard to tell where
she ended and the horse began. Anyway, she fell over backward
when her horse tried to bolt away from Uncle Al’s newest
squeeze, and luckily she landed on her huge butt. But the
resulting concussion forced about 10 pounds of gas out of her,
and as she hit the pavement she simultaneously blew a fart that
made me wonder if she was a long-lost member of my family.
By now, the parade spectators were rolling on the ground in
uncontrollable laughter, and somebody started an "Al! Al! Al!"
chant. Uncle Al responded in like fashion, letting loose a
rolling thunder-type fart that gradually built up into an
approaching freight train-like sound with a smell to match his
effort. The riders were still trying to get back on their
horses, but the terrified animals were more concerned with
getting away from that awful stench than they were with the
welfare of their riders.
Luckily, neither man nor
beast was injured, except for pride, while the spectators
remarked that it was the greatest parade they had ever seen. I
don’t know what’s going to happen in next year, but I’ll bet any
amount of money that the equestrian team won’t be marching that parade.
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Happy 4th!, From The Fart Family
Happy Fourth of July to all you good folks who know the
benefits of a good, healthy fart, and make much use of your
Remote Control Fart Machines and other gadgets! I just want to
tell you, the Fourth of July is a noisy time, with fireworks and
all, but it’s usually a peaceful time around the Fart Family
house. That’s because we all usually go someplace else for the
celebration. Not that travel has any bearing on this family’s
outrageous behavior, though it does cut it down a bit. But this
year the holiday has started off with a BANG already, and let me
tell you about it.
Not being ones to get caught short when it comes to having
enough food around the house to feed a small nation for a week,
we did our shopping early. We always bring food whenever we
visit someone else’s house, because most of us don’t eat like
normal human beings. And, of course, all that food’s gotta come
out somewhere! Anyway, we hit the local food market the other
day, and I do believe that the establishment will never be the
same.
Before I get into the disgusting events that took place, let me
tell you a little about my Aunt Esther, on my father’s side. She
may have the same name as that lovable character from "Sanford
and Son," but that’s where the similarity ends. She’s an
enormous woman with a nasty temperament, and it’s been said of
her that she can roll over a small import car with one fart.
Until now, I never did believe this, but after witnessing the
disturbance at the market, I can now vouch for her gastric
prowess.
On the way to the market, we had to stop at a local eatery for
Aunt Esther and my father to have about six corned
beef-and-cabbage sandwiches each. I should have seen the dire
warnings coming, but I confess, I was ignorant. When we got to
the market, it was crowded, as it usually is whenever you want
to get something. After maneuvering Aunt Esther through the
automatic doors (she just about made it), we started down the
first aisle, which was blocked by a very attractive woman’s
cart. The woman was searching for something on the shelf nearest
the floor, and Aunt Esther was furious for the delay. Before any
of us could react, Aunt Esther walked over to where the woman
was crouching, bent over, and cut a fart that sounded like and
old DC-10 taking off. The blast caught the woman right in the
face, and she keeled over like she was poleaxed. The lingering
smell wafted over to the other patrons, who high-tailed it for
the next aisle, just as Aunt Esther was gathering up enough gas
for a second explosion. Luckily, they all got out of there in
time. As for the victim of the all-out blast, she was still
lying against the shelves with a bad case of the dry heaves, and
I doubt if she will ever get the toxic smell out of her system.
We made our way through the store without further incident, and
had the aisles mostly to ourselves, mainly because when Aunt
Esther is pushing her cart up one side of the aisle, there is no
other side. But then we got to the appetizing section. The
number on the board being served was 62, and we had number 86,
and of course the "normal" people were ordering a half pound of
this, a quarter pound of that, etc. I looked at Aunt Esther’s
shopping list, and read six pounds of roast beef, a full boiled
ham, 11 pounds of potato salad, and two pounds of meat balls
with sauce, which she would probably eat while waiting in the
checkout line. I then saw her and my father look at each other,
and knew that the end was near.
It began when I heard Aunt Esther whisper, "The hell with this!"
She hiked up her huge stretch pants and started blowing farts
left and right, scattering the shoppers who had numbers lower
than ours and permanently wilting the flowers that were on
display in the floral department next aisle over. My father was
laughing like a loon all the while, and then his corned
beef-and-cabbage sandwiches kicked in, and he started adding his
bombs to the ones Aunt Esther was dropping. The workers behind
the counter were gagging, yet one brave soul made his way to the
front and took Aunt Esther’s order despite the cesspool-like
atmosphere. Aunt Esther finally ended her cannonade with one
last forceful blast, but her talent betrayed her, and she
crapped in her pants. Undaunted, she demanded service, and had
to yell to be heard above the wretching sounds being made by the
customers. Needless to say, I stayed in front of Aunt Esther at
the checkout line, though the odor lingered around her in a
50-yard perimeter. All I could think of at the time was having
to ride back to the house in the same car with these slobs, who
told me I should have picked up something to eat for the
mile-and-a-quarter trip.
Also needless to say, I walked home.
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Happy Easter From The Fart Family
You know, I’m really getting to hate holidays. Seems like we
just got past New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, and the horrors that
St. Patrick’s Day causes with this family, and now all of a
sudden it’s Easter. The holy time. A time full of meaning for
most people, but in this family it’s just another opportunity to
raise Cain, whether it’s meant to or not. At least there’s one
salvation - Uncle Al (whom you know from previous writings) is
usually not around on Easter, but his place is more than filled
by others who are just as outrageous.
Let me tell you about last Easter, and the terrible consequences
of having my cousin Bobby dress up as the Easter Bunny. But
first there was the Easter morning breakfast, with the whole
family gathered around the table, at least those that could fit.
Face it, people are just not very narrow in this family. The
amount of multi-colored hard-boiled eggs that was consumed could
have fed Guam for a week, and the candy rabbits never had a
chance. I saw my Aunt Glenda attack a bowl of jelly beans and
consume them without even swallowing, along with that fake grass
that’s supposed to be decorative but serves as another tidbit
for those so inclined. Of course, Aunt Glenda should be playing
for the Green Bay Packers. She could play defensive line, and I
mean she’s wide enough to be THE defensive line. She was wearing
some kind of stretch pants that had a string around where the
waist is supposed to be, which kind of reminded me of the
mooring line on a blimp. Not to be outdone, my father picked up
a chocolate bunny that was about three feet high and plowed into
it for a minute or so, until all that was left was the ears.
What slobs!
But then came the terror of Sunday Mass.
It all started out well, and I thought we were going to get
through this like regular people. But then all those eggs and
chocolate started to take effect. My father, I believe it was,
started off the bombardment with a blast that literally lifted
him up off the pew. There's nothing like hard-boiled-egg farts,
and "pew" is the word, believe me, for what followed. The flood
gates were now opened, and the whole church took on the odor of
a backed-up sewer in the middle of August. The disgusting stench
finally wafted up toward the front of the church, where even the
priest started to gag. Other people looked around with horrified
looks on their faces, and placed handkerchiefs over their mouths
and noses, but with little effect for these noxious fumes. I
know I’ve said it before, but human beings should not be able to
make these kind of noises from any parts of their bodies. These
farts sounded at one time like a herd of cattle lowing, while at
another time it made the noise of a jet engine taking off.
Okay, back home again for another feast, this time with ham and
the dreaded beans. But then another sight caught my eye and
turned my blood into ice water, as Cousin Bobby suddenly
appeared in an Easter Bunny suit. I never knew Omar the Tent
Maker made bunny costumes, and where Bobby got such a suit to
fit him I don’t know and won’t hazard to guess. Bobby’s about
6-2 and at least 400 pounds if he’s an ounce, but it’s all soft
fat, like that dough boy they used to show on TV commercials.
Maybe they sewed three or four suits together, I don’t know.
Anyway, it was my mother’s idea to gather up the neighborhood
children and have an Easter egg hunt, while Bobby bopped around
like the bloated Easter Bunny from hell, and God forbid if he
should step on one of the kids. What kept Bobby going was the
five pounds of chocolate he stuffed inside the costume, which he
consumed while encouraging the children to search for the eggs.
All was well for awhile, then the unthinkable happened (I should
say unthinkable if you happen to be a "normal" human being). All
of a sudden, Bobby face took on the pallor of a yellowish shade
of green, and we all immediately got out of the way. But it was
too late for the kids. Without any further warning, Bobby leaned
over and let go the loudest fart in recorded history. The only
thing I can liken it to would be a car backfiring on the
highway. There was no build-up, no prior emission of gas, just a
"blam!" noise that could be heard from a mile away. The
resultant explosion blew out the entire back of the Easter Bunny
costume, and the poor kids were "treated" to the sight of a rear
end that would make any respectable hippopotamus consider a
weight reduction program.
Well, we got the kids out of there before the smell permeated
the environment, and we sincerely hope that they will not be
traumatized by the accident into thinking that all Easter
Bunnies look and behave in this manner. Bobby thought nothing of
it, of course, and waddled over to the table to attack another
legion of chocolate rabbits and Easter eggs. As for me, I can
only look ahead to the future and imagine the unknown terrors
that lie ahead, with birthdays, celebrations, and (dare I say
it) even more of the dreaded holidays!
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St. Patrick’s Day - The Fart Family Revisited
Hello again. Here we are back at’cha. Maybe by the time you
read this, the winter will have gone away, along with all the
miserable snow and ice. Never seen such a damn winter in my
life! Slipping, sliding, falling, even Uncle Al said enough is
enough. In fact, he found out the hard way while he was trying
to penguin-walk over the ice on his driveway and into the house
one cold Saturday night.
As you know from previous writings, Uncle Al is infamous for his
farts. Well, maybe it was the act of trying to navigate the icy
driveway that caused him to let go one of his patented gastric
blasts, but this time it backfired. The explosion was so intense
that it blew the back of his pants out, and he flew up into the
air, landing on his now bare backside, which promptly stuck to
the ice. In the meantime, the case of beer he was carrying slid
back down the driveway and got run over by a bus filled with
passengers. The driver immediately stopped the bus, and along
with all those passengers ran over to where Uncle Al was
sitting, thinking that Uncle Al had been hit and knocked into
the driveway. So here’s this large group of people standing
around a disgusting slob who has his bare fat ass sticking to
the ice. Not one to be easily embarrassed, Uncle Al disbursed
the crowd with a fart strong enough to melt the ice and take out
a manhole-sized piece of asphalt from the driveway. As he stood
there picking tarmac out of his butt, Uncle Al told the driver
that he would contact his company and demand repayment for the
case of beer.
But on to St. Patrick’s Day! A great time of year, isn’t it? As
long as you take it easy on the cabbage it is, but not this
family, no sir! It should be considered an environmental hazard
for anyone in this family to eat cabbage, but eat it they do,
along with about 85 pounds of corned beef. In fact, we eat
before the parade in New York starts, so my father and Uncle Al
can march with whatever godawful organization they belong to.
Last year, the parade managers had a team of workers who usually
clean up after the horses follow Uncle Al with their "honey
buckets," but all Uncle Al did was let a few hundred farts go,
one of which blew out part of the reviewing stand.
My father and Uncle Al had a great plan last year: They borrowed
all the Remote Control Fart Machines they could get from their
friends, and secretly tied the speakers together somewhere on
the horses that were part of the march. Then, as the horses
passed the reviewing stand, my father and Uncle Al would press
the remote buttons and set off all those fart machines at once.
Well, what a fiasco this turned out to be! The horses bolted
from the sound of the fart machines, and one of them left a big
load right in front of this puffed up woman dignitary, who
thought the whole matter was very "uncouth." Well, if she
thought that was uncouth, the mind boggles at what she thought
of the aftermath.
My father and Uncle Al were laughing their collective asses off,
as one of the horses crashed through the barrier and damaged a
piece of the reviewing stand, leaving it attached by only one
bolt. Not seeing the damage, Uncle Al leaned against the
weakened structure and let go a monumental blast of his own,
which spelled certain doom for the reviewing stand. One section
came crashing down, taking the puffed up woman dignitary with it
and sending her head-first into the pile of manure that the
bolting horse had left. As she flew through the air, her mouth
opened in surprise, and came to rest right in the middle of the
pile. Uncle Al offered her a bottle of mouthwash that he keeps
in his pocket for when he stupidly drinks and drives, but all
the woman would do is call him a "horrible man" as she tried to
remove the vestiges of hay and oats from her teeth and lips.
And yes, everyone got their Remote Control Fart Machines back!
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Holiday Afterglow
Here I am, back at’cha again. Hope your holidays were good. As
for the members of the "Fart Family," which is what kids around
the neighborhood call us, things were as hectic and outrageous
as usual. New Year’s was uneventful, but Christmas was something
else. At our last meeting, I told you about Christmas 2001, when
the Christmas tree got knocked over from post-meal farts and the
lights set the carpet on fire. Well, this year had that beat.
Before I begin, let me tell you once again about Uncle Al. He’s
about 60 or so, weighs around 400 pounds, and is very hard of
hearing. He has a habit of paying a visit to the bathroom after
a very heavy holiday dinner, and since he can’t hear himself, he
has no control over the farts he makes, and the disgusting
sounds can be heard throughout the house. But I’m getting ahead
of the story.
My father was very happy this year, since the kids’ video game
that he developed really began to sell. It’s called "Gastro
Blast," and comes with these special pellets that you mix with
hot water and causes a repulsive smell. Anyway, my father was so
elated over his success that right as he sat down at the dining
room table, he emitted a tremendous fart that almost blew out
the back of the chair. As it turned out, the family cat was
sound asleep right behind the chair, and the rudely awakened,
horrified animal sprang up and took off into one of the bedrooms
like ten devils were chasing it. The cat came out sometime
later, but wouldn’t go near my father.
Christmas dinner consisted of turkey, ham, and (may the Saints
preserve us) broccoli, turnips, succotash, and cabbage. Uncle Al
was shoveling it in like he hadn’t eaten for a month, and my
Aunt Ida was keeping right up with him. The belching and farting
started shortly thereafter, while we were exchanging gifts.
Uncle Al got a little miffed when somebody gave him a present of
a case of air fresheners, but he quickly got over it and grabbed
up the newspaper on his way upstairs to the bathroom to do his
thing.
Remember the old "Godzilla" movie, the original one made back in
the 1950’s? Remember as they’re showing the title and opening
credits on the screen, the monster roars a number of times?
Well, that’s exactly the sound that was coming from behind the
closed bathroom door upstairs. I swear, you would think it
impossible for a human being to make this kind of sound, but
Uncle Al is an exception. Finally, we heard the bowl flush and
thought the booming fart attack was over, but a string of curses
immediately followed, and I knew the worst had come.
Uncle Al had overflowed the toilet. Brown water was all over the
place, dripping down through the floor. The ceiling and walls of
the bedroom below were covered with Uncle Al’s now
mostly-liquefied offal, as was Grandma, who had unwisely chosen
this room in which to take her after-dinner nap. Since she slept
with her mouth open as she snored away, one can only imagine the
result. We quickly woke her up and got her out of the putrefying
room, as she smacked her lips and mentioned something about
pudding. She smelled like an open sewer, but kept insisting it
wasn’t so bad, until someone finally threw her into the bathtub
of the guest bathroom. Uncle Al blamed the accident on
low-quality toilet paper, and loudly cut another string of
broccoli farts that made his previous attempts seem like
nothing.
Well, that’s about it for this time, just another typical
holiday for this family. I hope 2003 is a great year for you,
and will leave you with a warning: If you’re ever driving and
see a fat man in an old, beat-up, red pickup truck eating a hero
sandwich as he rolls down the road, quickly accelerate and get
far away from him. That’ll be Uncle Al, and whatever you do,
don’t get stuck in traffic behind him.
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Merry Christmas Farts
Hello again. We met last month, when I told you about my
family and their penchant for passing wind, especially on
holidays. Well, we somehow made it through another Thanksgiving
without too much damage. The only incident was when a neighbor
called the gas company because they thought they smelled a gas leak in the
street. Turned out it was just the gaseous intestinal fumes
coming from my parent’s house that made the whole block smell
like a sewer.
But now, with Christmas upon us, I’d like to tell you about
last year. You know, most families are built on love,
understanding, cooperation, and trust. My family is built on
farts. It’s what keeps us together. From an early age, we kids
were taught to "let ’em rip" whenever we got the urge, no matter
where we were at the time, and to hold it in was unhealthy. My
mother likes to talk about the time she and my father were on
their honeymoon, and my father bragged about how he could fart
in tune to music, until one time his ability escaped him and he
crapped all over the bed.
Last Christmas was the absolute pits. It started out good,
until I saw Uncle Al pull up in his old pickup truck. You met
Uncle Al last month; he’s the huge pile of blubber that can’t
hear and blew the bathroom apart with his farts a few
Thanksgivings ago. While Uncle Al was trying to figure out how
he and the case of beer he was carrying could fit through the
door at the same time, I made my way into the kitchen. What I
saw there made me freeze in horror.
It was there. On the table. For all to see. A gigantic pot
of, you guessed it, BEANS! And not the kind that are good for
you, but the ones that come in a can and have all those little
pieces of fat floating around that’s supposed to be pork. My
blood curdled as I imagined the horrific smells that would come
later, especially when the beans are combined with turkey,
broccoli, cabbage, and loads of beer.
We first passed out the gifts, while Uncle Al hungrily eyed
the pot of beans. Wouldn’t you know it, we all gave each other
the same gifts - those Remote Control Fart Machines that
everybody‘s been buying. They’re tremendous joke gifts, but in
this family? Talk about putting tits on a bull! The machines
sound very realistic, but don’t smell like the real thing,
thankfully.
Then we sat down for Christmas dinner, as Uncle Al conveyed
his latest sexual escapades to my Aunt Ida. Who or what would
want to have sex with Uncle Al is beyond imagination, but dinner
time is not the time to be thinking about something as
disgusting as that. My father put a Remote Control Fart Machine
behind Uncle Al’s chair and kept pressing the remote button, but
Uncle Al couldn’t hear it anyway. We made it through the main
course, and while we were passing dessert around, the first SBD
(Silent But Deadly) wafted into the room. I think it came from
my Aunt Mildred, but we couldn’t tell. Anyway, the one little
fart opened the door for the sonic blasts that would prove to be
the destruction of all that was sacred.
For once, Uncle Al wasn’t the originator of the fart barrage.
My cousin Bertha, who’s built like a bowling ball with arms and
legs, let one go that sounded like a herd of trumpeting
elephants. Even Uncle Al heard it, and not to be outdone, he
fired back with a sound that no human being should be capable of
making. Everyone else made their contributions, but then it
happened. Uncle Al and Cousin Bertha let loose at the same time,
and the Christmas tree with all the lights went crashing to the
floor, setting the carpet on fire. The burning fabric combining
with the gaseous fumes spread to the picture window, which burst
either from the smell or the pressure. Someone quickly called
911 and the firemen came, but they didn’t want to go into the
house because of the stink. They hosed the house down from
outside, and most of the structure was saved. Of course, my
father thought it was hilarious, and stated that he wished he
had a camcorder to capture the happening on film for all time.
This is it for me, this is the end. I’ll never spend another
holiday at home again. What would be coming up next after New
Year’s, Easter? With all those hard-boiled eggs? No way! I’ve
had it! See you around!
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Thanksgiving (Fart) Memories
Thanksgiving time is upon us again, a time for giving thanks for
all that we have and for getting together with family members.
No matter how old we are, Thanksgiving always conjures up
memories of past holidays, as we remember yesteryears and sadly
think of those who are no longer seated at our table. It is also
the time for one of the greatest environmental dangers to
mankind - Turkey Farts!
I remember one year above all others, since I had to be rushed
to the hospital after accidentally inhaling the air in the
sitting room, where Grandpa had parked himself after eating
about eight pounds of the bird. He was blowing farts that
sounded like the cannonade that marked the third day of fighting
at Gettysburg, and the only way I can describe the room is that
it smelled like our neighbor's septic tank when it overflowed
one hot August day. I walked in on one particularly noxious
blast, opened my mouth in shock, and the next thing I knew I was
in the emergency room getting oxygen pumped into my system. I'm
sure glad that old bastard's dead. I heard he died when he
farted while working on the furnace in the basement, when the
toxic fumes mixed with the gas to cause an explosion that gutted
the house.
But now we have Uncle Al to contend with. Uncle Al weighs about
400 pounds and is very hard of hearing, and always goes into the
bathroom after consuming an enormous amount of turkey, along
with a case or two of beer. Since he can't hear himself fart as
he sits on the bowl, there's no holding back, and the noise is
incredible. Sounds like a damn machine gun. My little cousin sat
just outside the bathroom last Thanksgiving, giggling at the
noise coming from within, until one turkey-and-beer fart blew
the toilet bowl off its moorings and sent Uncle Al crashing
through the door. We don't know whether it was the smell, the
blast, or the sight of Uncle Al with his pants down around his
ankles, but my cousin hasn't been the same since.
I will not bore you with any further descriptions of my family,
such as Aunt Ida's cabbage-eating son, Grandma Wilma's penchant
for broccoli, or my father thinking it's funny when he has a
turkey-fart accident in his pants. Instead, I will wish you all
a very Happy Thanksgiving. As for me, I'm getting the hell away
from all these fart-laying, disgusting slobs and will spend the
day at the local pub.
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The Horrors of Thanksgiving Dinner
Another
Episode In The Continuing Saga Of The Fart Family
Just when you think you’ve seen, heard, or smelled it all, along
comes something else that boggles the senses and throws
everything out of kilter. For once, I thought this was going to
be a peaceful Thanksgiving dinner, mainly because Uncle Al
(whose name has graced these pages many time before) was going
to someone else’s house to lay siege to their refrigerators and
toilet facilities. But I soon found out that the worst was yet
to come.
Right around 10 o’clock, when the parade in New York City was
well underway, I learned that we were going to have some guests
after all. So far, I have told you about people (or unreasonable
facsimiles thereof) from my father’s side of the family. This
time, it was to be my mother’s brother and his wife that would
be gracing our table. I haven’t seen Uncle Roy or Aunt Ruth
since I was blowing farts through diapers, and didn’t know what
to expect. So when the doorbell rang, I cringed as my
imagination rampaged, wondering what kind of monstrosity would
be coming through our front door.
I soon found out that my fears were unfounded, as here stood two
normal-sized people who seemed to have the intelligence to be
concerned with more important things than food and farts. Aunt
Ruth was not unattractive, and Uncle Roy seemed to be a pretty
good Joe. Of course, my father had to start things off by
farting as he sat down at his chair and, needless to say, the
family cat was nowhere near the back of the chair, due to the
animal’s horrendous experience that I told you about in a past
episode. Other than that, the meal started out quite harmlessly,
but it was just the calm before the storm.
Just as my mother was starting to carve the bird, my father set
off the Remote Control Fart Machine that he had hidden behind
Aunt Ruth’s chair. But instead of turning various shades of red
in her embarrassment, Aunt Ruth just laughed while Uncle Roy
shook his head and said the contraption wasn’t loud enough. Now
all of you who have these machines know they’re plenty loud
enough, and I couldn’t figure out Uncle Roy’s reasoning. Man,
was I in for a surprise!
Halfway through the meal, it began. Uncle Roy looked across the
table at his wife with a sheepish grin on his face, and let one
go that sounded like a cross between a bullhorn and a steamboat
whistle. Aunt Ruth just looked back at him and said "white
meat." She then proceeded to unleash a gastric blast that lifted
the table up a few inches off its legs. Uncle Roy said, "Hah!
You’ve eaten a wing!" Aunt Ruth said "right you are" just before
Roy let another explosion go, to which she replied "drumstick."
With great delight, Uncle Roy told her she was wrong, that it
was just plain dark meat with a little gravy, and the two of
them continued their game. As you know, it’s common knowledge
that turkey farts are the worst things in the world, and here’s
these two slobs guessing which part of the turkey each one ate
by the type of fart that was released!
Our dining room soon took on a stench similar to what the
ancient Romans must have smelled on the way to the amphitheater
if they passed the "putrid pits," where the remains of
gladiators, Christians, and others would be thrown and later
burned. It was the most disgusting odor ever produced by man,
animal, or machine, and even my mother was starting to turn a
little green. My father, however, thought it was the greatest
thing, but when he stood up to make his contribution he seemed
to do more than just pass wind. By this time I had it, and went
off try and get a breath of fresh air while attempting to keep
down all that I had just consumed. Like the old saying goes, you
can’t tell a book by its cover, and this certainly rings true
for my Uncle Roy and Aunt Ruth.
I’m done for life, and I’ll never eat turkey again. Now we have
Christmas quickly approaching, and the prospects are good that
there will be another two or three 20-plus pounders in the
ovens. I will never be able to survive another session of turkey
farts, and even hearing my favorite fart machine go off only
brings back memories of that terrible stench. I don’t ask for
much, so when I do make a request of Divine Providence, it’s for
something really meaningful. Please, let our Christmas repast
consist of ham or steak or even corned beef and cabbage, or
anything at all. But please! PLEASE! No more turkey!
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Halloween With The Fart Family
So here we go again, another Halloween is almost here and
another chance to embarrass ourselves. Next to Thanksgiving,
this holiday is the pits for this family. The whole clan is
supposed to meet at our house on the big night, and that usually
adds up to a night of extreme grossness, with "family" games
such as Farting for Apples and Fart or Treat. We always dress up
in costumes of the old classic horror monsters, such as
Frankenstein, the Wolf Man, Dracula, the Mummy, etc. Of course,
this means we normally get about 17 Draculas, but who cares? My
father is going to be the Frankenstein monster, as usual, and my
mother will be the Bride of Frankenstein. I still don’t know
what I’m going to be yet, but that’s not the main problem. Our
main concern now is with Uncle Al.
At first, Uncle Al wanted to be the Wolf Man, but did you ever
see a 400-pound werewolf? Not likely. His second choice was the
Mummy, but by the time we got through putting all those wraps on
him, he’d be about ten feet wide. This would not be good either.
The third choice was the Blob, but it looked too much like his
normal self. Finally, Uncle Al opted for Godzilla, and if we got
about four or five costumes and sewed them together, it may be a
fit. That way, he could also put a Remote Control Fart Machine
inside the costume, and the sounds could be used to heighten the
effects of his own gastro-intestinal blasts.
Uncle Al showed up the other day with his latest squeeze, and at
first I thought she was coming over to show us her Halloween
costume, but then I realized that she always looked this way. I
swear, the two of them couldn’t fit through a garage door if
they walked side by side. The mind boggles at the amount of food
a woman of this size would be capable of consuming, and the
results of all that food intake.
A word about farting here. You can talk about cabbage, broccoli,
or turkey, but the absolute worst odor comes from eating those
little orange and white corn candies. Naturally, we have a
50-pound bag of the damn things all ready to go, along with a
few gas masks for those who have not experienced the devastation
that can be caused by Halloween candy farts. Uncle Al will
probably eat about 12 pounds of the candy, at least, and I don’t
intend to be within 50 yards of him.
I was going to sign off here and wish you all a very happy
Halloween, but I just got some terrible news. Uncle Al has
decided not to be Godzilla after all, and will appear with his
woman as Tarzan and Jane! On a night that’s supposed to be one
of horror, the ultimate will be reached. I do not want to see
this woman in a Jane costume, though it would lend credence to
the original story of an English noblewoman who becomes
infatuated with an ape man. If a group of rich people on safari
had someone with them who looked like Uncle Al’s date, they’d be
glad to leave her with the apes, if it didn’t scare the apes to
death. The two of them would be enough to make a herd of
elephants stampede in the opposite direction and not stop until
they reached the next continent, and there’s not a tree in all
the jungles of Africa that could hold their combined weight. At
least the native tribes and the animals would be forewarned of
their coming by the strong scent of gastric emanations caused by
excessive food intake, and could get out of Dodge before being
overcome with nausea.
So this is what we’re up against this year, and I’ll let you
know how it all turns out.
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