Tammi's World

But the brochure said....

I was rummaging in the sweets drawer for something to munch on during the ballgame. I stumbled across this small plastic container advertising the word "sour" upon its lid.

Anyone who knows me knows I am a sucker for sour. Mouth puckering, teeth squeaking, tongue peeling, drool-on-your-sneakers sour is what I love.

Just the ticket, thought I, as I read "sugar free" tucked in along with the sour. No matter. I snagged the little container and heaved myself on the couch for an afternoon of the football action.

The little sour candies were tasty enough, even if sugar free. I shook them out of their container at a consistent pace, enjoying the sour bite of each multicolored virgin globe. Impatient as I am, I ended up crunching the last third of the candy instead of chastely waiting for the traditional slow dissolve before moving on to the next handful of victims. Thanks to my intense sour jones, the 4 oz box of sugar free candy made it to half time.

I cast the empty container aside and snuggled deeper into the couch, content to enjoy the second half of the game.

A quarter had passed, I suppose. Peyton had just connected with Marvin Harrison deep downfield when I felt the first pang. I raised an eyebrow in mock curiosity as my stomach lurched left then bucked right, as if to try and shed itself of an unseen rider. My eyes widened as I physically sensed the massive air bubble traverse from the stomach and literally hurdle over the duodenum only to rocket into the small intestine. It was a most intense physical sensation I experienced over the next ten or fifteen minutes. The cramps and bloat were highlighted by extreme levels of assorted gastric discomfort that simple deduction tied to an approaching event horizon of biblical proportion.

Something evil was about to emerge from my anus and the Sphincter Police would have no choice but to lay down their muscle tone and let the angry mob pass.

Soon enough, the cheeks of my ass parted like two wet sheets pinned to a clothesline on a blustery day. In rapid-fire fashion, my intestine began to cast forth a foully percolated stew, the magnitude of which I personally had never experienced. Without a doubt, dear reader, even the most putrid of poultry houses, the most dank of meat packing facilities, the richest, most potent aujus of a shrimp and oyster processing factory could not have held so much as a scented candle to the noxious zephyrs emitted from my ass on that Sunday afternoon.

The horror soon shifted to laughter as the eruptions of gas were more frequent and predictable, even controllable in some instances. They could be expelled hard for punctuation and basso profundo. They could be slipped gently past for stealth and surprise. I was concertmaster and conductor in one of my very own anal symphony.

But wait! The laughter gave way to my usual half-scowl as an eyebrow curled in devious fashion. My feeble brain began to grind out a loosely organized but somewhat dastardly plan. The small tin of mints could be used as my own personal bio-weapon. Why could I not bring my ass-weapon to bear in plots of extortion and blackmail far and wide? There was no one who could withstand the toxic cloud of gases hovering around me. Even I, the emitter and owner, had to step away for clear atmosphere and a cool breath. It was fool proof. With my newfound fart fuel, I would use the sense of smell to strong arm my opponents into performing my nefarious bidding.......or give me ten bucks to stop farting.

But my plan had to be tested. It had to be proven viable. The only question was how?

I slinked quietly down the hall, hugging the eastern wall. Soon, the tippy-tap of Wifey patiently working from her computer fell upon my ears. I slipped into her office and hugged her backward from her chair. Never one to shy away for opportunities for affection, Wifey spun in her chair, rose, and extended her arms for an embrace.

"I love you, sweetie," she said as she squeezed me in a bear hug. Simultaneously, I slipped out a quiet giant. I felt the pulse of heat ejected from my buttocks begin to waft slowly up my back. The moment of truth had arrived.

Wifey pushed back and crinkled her nose. I stood grinning. She sniffed apprehensively as the full force of the fart began to bear down on her nostrils. I grinned harder and blasted again in basso profundo. She audibly squealed and jumped a bit in surprise.

"Jesus Christ!" she exclaimed. "What the hell did you do?"

I was speechless amidst the laughter. As if by explicit command, fart after fart after fart willingly and obediently exited my anus. I began pantomiming in an Egyptian fashion to accentuate the aural and olfactory with a visual accompaniment. It was Grand Theater of the most evil kind. I imagined myself as Amenhotep III as he pursued Moses into the sea, only holding the walls of water back with my all-powerful ass.

Wifey, unwilling to wait in her contaminated office for my questionable explanation, much less the conclusion of my passion play, threw the thumb and forefinger of one hand to her nose, began carving a path through the noxious fog by frantically waving the other, and retreated to more healthful environs. Ultimately, she left the house in favor of grocery shopping after enduring another surprise assault. Amazing......

It worked. I had warranted the unconditional surrender of another human with merely a fart. The results were indisputable. My wife had left her comfortable home voluntarily to avoid contact with my rectal emissions. It was a humbling moment in my own personal history.

As a footnote for those of you who might be interested, apparently the gaseous culprit was an overdose of maltodextrin contained within the candy. Perhaps I should see a doctor as well.

More later from your pal, bitterman.

Posted by at January 5, 2006 11:55 AM