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Description
It was Saturday night and my boyfriend and I were ready to hit the town. On one of the first warm weekends of the year we were ready to enjoy ourselves. My blond haired boyfriend, ever the looker, was eyeing me as we walked away from his car toward the elevator in the parking garage. He was wearing a white button-upped shirt and a pair of khaki pants, hair all greased up and slick with some of his cologne on. I was wearing a short black dress, which did their best to hang around my generous ass. I could feel the bottom-most edge of the dress against the halfway point down my two wobbly globes of booty meat. My boyfriend followed behind me, gazing at what to him must have been a wondrous sight. I could rule the world if I properly utilized my ass to its fullest potential.

As we walked past the various parked cars in the garage I began to feel something within me. Our dinner worked its way through my stomach and was now stewing about, creating something that is medically described as gas. A smile formed on my face, with this dress and my boyfriend lurking behind me I could bring him to his knees. Farts are amazing things. They are the great equalizers of humanity. No matter where you’re from, no matter what language you speak, everyone knows what a fart is. Just one sniff, and you are aware of what has happened, whatever your race, creed or color is. Farts are what bind humanity together.

The word fart comes from the Middle English ferten or farten. It is closely related to the Old High German word fartzan, which means “to break wind.” The Greeks called it perdesthai and there is even a Sanskrit word for it: pardate, which means “he breaks wind.” Apparently, the concept of farting has been around since before history began. Was farting a sacred ritual among ancient tribal peoples? How come there’s no mention of farting in classic literature? How farts louder, fat people or skinny people? If someone farts in a forest, and no one is there to smell it, does it still stink? These are all intriguing questions, but the one question that has been nagging me lately is this: How do you know that you have truly farted a spectacular fart?

In order to properly grade a fart, several factors must be considered. I believe one must measure not only of sound, duration and smell, but also the reactions to those around the event horizon. After all, the best part of cutting the cheese is seeing how those around you handle it. On a personal level, I believe that for a fart to be truly great, it must not only come from the anus. It must also come from your soul.

My greatest fart happened as we entered the parking garage elevator. The doors closed slowly after my boyfriend and I entered. The moment we started moving, I felt a small disturbance bubbling within my ass. My insides tensed up as the gas bubble rippled through my insides toward my stink hole. I clenched my butt-cheeks, trying to hold in the gas. Unfortunately the pressure was too great. My sphincter began to lose containment. Then, as if it was unleashing an eruption of volcanic proportions, my ass released a long, deafening scream. It sounded like some kind of mutant mating call. A smile crept across my face as I envisioned winning first chair in the ass-horn section. My boyfriend looked at me in horror, for he knew he was doomed. When the stench of my own personal butt-perfume hit his nostrils, he screeched in agony. He began to panic, holding his nose closed and hopping around like a toddler having to tinkle. Personally, I thought the stench was somewhat appealing. It had a spicy, “twilight in the sewer” tinge to it. Meanwhile, the elevator crept ever-so-slowly down toward the ground floor. Desperate to breathe, my boyfriend opened his mouth and inhaled the foul air. His face began to take on a greenish hue. He began to gag.

“I can TASTE it!” He screamed.

“I can taste your fart!”

Again, a smile slowly waxed across my face as I saw his eyes begin to water and his knees starting to buckle. I wondered if my ass had violated some kind of chemical weapons ban. The elevator reached the ground floor, but the doors would not open. My boyfriend pounded on the doors with tears in his eyes screaming.

“For the love of GOD let me out!”

Then, as if God himself had heard and taken pity on him, the doors opened. My boyfriend ran out and dropped to his knees, desperately inhaling the fresh air around him. I hesitated to assist him, wondering if he was going to throw up all over the ground. Once I was sure that there was no longer a danger of vomiting, I put my hand on my boyfriend’s back. He caught his breathe and assured me that, despite some synged nose hairs, he was okay. He then told me.

“That was the single most disgusting thing I have ever had to endure in my life!”

I smiled. I was proud. My fart had been truly great. Unfortunately, my boyfriend and I never ate at Taco Bell again.

Description
It was Saturday night and my boyfriend and I were ready to hit the town. On one of the first warm weekends of the year we were ready to enjoy ourselves. My blond haired boyfriend, ever the looker, was eyeing me as we walked away from his car toward the elevator in the parking garage. He was wearing a white button-upped shirt and a pair of khaki pants, hair all greased up and slick with some of his cologne on. I was wearing a short black dress, which did their best to hang around my generous ass. I could feel the bottom-most edge of the dress against the halfway point down my two wobbly globes of booty meat. My boyfriend followed behind me, gazing at what to him must have been a wondrous sight. I could rule the world if I properly utilized my ass to its fullest potential.

As we walked past the various parked cars in the garage I began to feel something within me. Our dinner worked its way through my stomach and was now stewing about, creating something that is medically described as gas. A smile formed on my face, with this dress and my boyfriend lurking behind me I could bring him to his knees. Farts are amazing things. They are the great equalizers of humanity. No matter where you’re from, no matter what language you speak, everyone knows what a fart is. Just one sniff, and you are aware of what has happened, whatever your race, creed or color is. Farts are what bind humanity together.

The word fart comes from the Middle English ferten or farten. It is closely related to the Old High German word fartzan, which means “to break wind.” The Greeks called it perdesthai and there is even a Sanskrit word for it: pardate, which means “he breaks wind.” Apparently, the concept of farting has been around since before history began. Was farting a sacred ritual among ancient tribal peoples? How come there’s no mention of farting in classic literature? How farts louder, fat people or skinny people? If someone farts in a forest, and no one is there to smell it, does it still stink? These are all intriguing questions, but the one question that has been nagging me lately is this: How do you know that you have truly farted a spectacular fart?

In order to properly grade a fart, several factors must be considered. I believe one must measure not only of sound, duration and smell, but also the reactions to those around the event horizon. After all, the best part of cutting the cheese is seeing how those around you handle it. On a personal level, I believe that for a fart to be truly great, it must not only come from the anus. It must also come from your soul.

My greatest fart happened as we entered the parking garage elevator. The doors closed slowly after my boyfriend and I entered. The moment we started moving, I felt a small disturbance bubbling within my ass. My insides tensed up as the gas bubble rippled through my insides toward my stink hole. I clenched my butt-cheeks, trying to hold in the gas. Unfortunately the pressure was too great. My sphincter began to lose containment. Then, as if it was unleashing an eruption of volcanic proportions, my ass released a long, deafening scream. It sounded like some kind of mutant mating call. A smile crept across my face as I envisioned winning first chair in the ass-horn section. My boyfriend looked at me in horror, for he knew he was doomed. When the stench of my own personal butt-perfume hit his nostrils, he screeched in agony. He began to panic, holding his nose closed and hopping around like a toddler having to tinkle. Personally, I thought the stench was somewhat appealing. It had a spicy, “twilight in the sewer” tinge to it. Meanwhile, the elevator crept ever-so-slowly down toward the ground floor. Desperate to breathe, my boyfriend opened his mouth and inhaled the foul air. His face began to take on a greenish hue. He began to gag.

“I can TASTE it!” He screamed.

“I can taste your fart!”

Again, a smile slowly waxed across my face as I saw his eyes begin to water and his knees starting to buckle. I wondered if my ass had violated some kind of chemical weapons ban. The elevator reached the ground floor, but the doors would not open. My boyfriend pounded on the doors with tears in his eyes screaming.

“For the love of GOD let me out!”

Then, as if God himself had heard and taken pity on him, the doors opened. My boyfriend ran out and dropped to his knees, desperately inhaling the fresh air around him. I hesitated to assist him, wondering if he was going to throw up all over the ground. Once I was sure that there was no longer a danger of vomiting, I put my hand on my boyfriend’s back. He caught his breathe and assured me that, despite some synged nose hairs, he was okay. He then told me.

“That was the single most disgusting thing I have ever had to endure in my life!”

I smiled. I was proud. My fart had been truly great. Unfortunately, my boyfriend and I never ate at Taco Bell again.