Two true stories

If you are appalled by those childish people who laugh at repulsive, immature toilet humor, then you best stop reading now. Come back tomorrow for what is sure to be a much more intelligent discussion. And for those of you who thought I couldn't sink much lower after reading yesterday's confessions, I triumphantly bring you:

A Collection of Two Stories on the Topic of Human Flatulation
or
Other People's Farts are Funny

Disclaimer: I do not own these stories, nor did I acquire permission to tell them. They are both true, told to me by two different loved ones. The first story was probably shared with me in confidence, so I have omitted references that might provide clues to the subject's identity, just in case. The second story is told frequently during family gatherings (usually at my persistent request), so I didn't think anonymity was necessary. I have narrated both accounts in my own words, paraphrased from their original impartations. Enjoy!


Story One

I am fanatical about massages. I love receiving them, and am quite discerning of the therapists technique and bedside manner. During a well-executed massage, one's entire body should relax, and I have always wondered if it is common for clients to unwittingly pass gas during a massage (existential, I know). Then when it happens, how does the therapist a) keep from bursting into apologetic guffaws, and b) continue working with that proverbial elephant stinking up room. So when I had the opportunity to ask a massage therapist I know well, I did. Unfortunately, the question remains unanswered, because she couldn't recall that scenario ever transpiring, at least in an audibly or aromatically noticeable way. BUT, she did go on to regale me with a tale of the time she had to perform a full-body massage with a shart in her own panties.

In accordance with standard spa procedure, the massage therapist excused herself from the small, dark room to allow her next gentleman client to undress. After a few minutes, she approached the door again, but halted before opening it. As it is never good form to pass gas next to your relaxing client's downward facing nostrils, she decided to push out that little nagging toot that felt like it might want to make it's way out during the next 60 minutes. She immediately realized her grave miscalculation as her butt crack turned suddenly warm and moist. But the massage therapist had already allowed Mr. Client plenty of time to get comfortable, and she could not justify leaving him lying on her table in silence, staring at the floor throught his padded face donut any longer. So she took a deep, cleansing breath. And she entered the room to do what has to be the most uncomfortable massage of her entire career thus far.

The End.


Story Two

You know, some families form lasting bonds over poop and fart humor. Even when it is being used as a form of sibling torture, memories of laughter are created, and what's wrong with that? My brother-in-law Randy is the second-oldest of 7 children in his family. I had two older brothers, and I know it's in their genes to find cunning ways to irritate and disgust their little sisters. Mine would put nooses around my stuffed animals and suspend them from the twirling ceiling fan. Randy preferred to fart in as close proximity to his sisters as possible.

One afternoon, Randy emerged from his bedroom and looked down the hallway into the family room. He could see his younger sister's golden locks cascading over the arm of the couch. She was the perfect victim, because the back of the couch obstructed her view down the hall, so she'd have no time to escape. Randy worked up a good one, and like a panther stalking its prey, crept silently toward the back of the couch. At the perfect moment, he pounced, letting a big, juicy one riiiiiip, right on Sister's face!

"AAAAAAAAUUUGHHHH!" came the furious cry from beneath the weapon of mass defilement. Randy's stomach sunk. He didn't even have to look under his freshly detonated cheeks to know. His mother sprung erect on the couch, pushing her foul son to the floor. It wasn't difficult to interpret her anger: if the facial expression didn't give it away, the loud profanity did.

What kind of apology do you offer the woman who gave you life in this world after farting right on her head?

The End.


Post-Script: I wonder how many people suggested the word shart be added to the dictionary. At least it has a real definition.