I was minding my own business, really. In the local music mart, I strode down the aisle to see if the Porcupine Tree section had been restocked to include, perhaps, The Sky Moves Sideways (which I've never heard but desperately need). As I neared the greying man wearing headphones at the listening station, I was as oblivious to his intentions as I assumed he was to my advance.
And then, as I stepped directly behind him, the attack was launched: Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!
Four loud, abrupt, rapid reports were issued from his posterior! I paused and looked at his back in amazement. You damn bloody bastard! Couldn't draw up the stuff to vomit on me, eh? I realized I should probably keep moving to avoid inhaling his inner essence.
Upon reaching the end of the aisle and putting a safe distance between us, I turned to give Mr. Tooty Bum a look of reproach. He had quickly turned cheek and scampered off. Stinking coward. Hope he shat himself.
Pity, I never saw his face. I just don't know what possesses some people. Ffft.
13 comments:
Got you good. Got you real good.
Hoist by your own petard. Bet you're just hacked off cause you didn't have a retort locked and loaded.
You're no stranger to duelling flatulence, are you, Powee?
No, Shamus, I've traded low rumblings and sharp reports with some of the best. But ne'er have I dropped a putrid stealth bomb such as you once did at a public watering hole. For pure noxious rotten stench, you are unsurpassed in my unfortunate experience. Something, sir, had crawled up inside you and died...several days before, judging by the concentration of anaerobic bacteria. Nastiness. The Hindenburg of farts.
Regarding your heavier-than-air effluvium of yore, described in my previous post:
I do readily admit that your scurrilous subjection of a friend to your neutron bomb was nearly excused by your blaming the lingering horror on a nearby obnoxious tyke, well known son of the boorish egoturd Fatt Snoball. A hilarious and clever ruse that had me going.
I remember that, vivdly. My eyes glazed over. My nosehairs curled. In the air above our table floated several oily plumes of nether-fumes. It was as if the Buttcrack of Hell had opened beneath us. And you blamed it on an innocent child who was being quickly ushered out by his now-deceased pappy. You are without shame. I admire you with all of my being. Say you'll be mine.
Freecloud, have we met?
Why did you pause? To better inhale his wafting brown essence?
Why O' Why...
You are pignasty.
Although just a wee bairn at the time, I have vague memories of Seamus' maniacal methane mishaps. Trying to watch Astro Boy on Saturday morning as Seamus absolutely ruined the den for everyone. Finally, putting him out in the yard to chase squirrels and bark at the neighbor lady. Oh, wait . . . that wasn't Seamus, that was our beloved beagle Nimrod! Or, was it? Anyway, we were quickly shown the door out of Dundee!
It all makes since now. For I, too, was in that same establishment that very day. As I was entering, some Cheshire Cat of a man held the door for me and crowed, "I wouldn't go in there yet if I were you."
Aye, Foul Al, and I've seen your kilt blow up a time or two meself when bellowed by yer buttockian breeze. You are all so obviously jealous of the depth and breadth of my intestinal fortitude. Cheers.
Ahh, the joys of going commando! Methinks the Barney Fife and Drum Corps also shares the true Scottish style of the wearing o' the kilt!
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