Fire.
No, seriously.
Friend of mine – call him Bob – guy with no shame at all, got a bunch of flak once because of his stinkies. In the process of ranking him out about it, someone – it might have been me – said, “Light a match, man! (waves hand to disperse odor) Jeez!”
He looked at me quizzically. Someone else explained to him the flammable nature of flatulence.
His face showed shock … and glee. “No way!” he exclaimed. Feeling another one coming on, he rolled backwards, flung his ankles about his ears, pointed his ass skyward, snatched out a Bic lighter, lit it, and held it ready.
It cost him the hair on his knuckles, but he was… ENLIGHTENED.
So to speak.
For months after that, you never knew when he’d suddenly fling himself on his back and let loose the torch of liberty… It cost him a bit with the chicks, but he was the life of any party. Anyone can throw up or take their top off, but Bob was the only one anyone ever heard of who brought his own light show. With a little experimentation, he even found that he could vary the flames’ colors, depending on what he’d eaten that day. The most common colors were blue and yellow, but he found that various foods, in addition to increasing his flatulence, produced blue and green, blue and orange, pure blue, orange and yellow, and there was one thing that even produced sparks. I don’t know what it was. I frankly didn’t wanna know, mad science notwithstanding…
It all came to an end one September day, at my place. I don’t remember what we were all doing there. Bob was on the couch, Bobo and Troll were sitting next to him, and I was sitting on the floor on the other side of the coffee table. We were talking or something, and suddenly, Bob’s eyes lit with an inner …fire… we’d all come to recognize.
“Fire alarm!” said, Troll, realizing what was about to happen. Troll and Bobo immediately scooched away to give him room to work. I obligingly grabbed the coffee table and pulled it back.
Bob flung his ankles about his ears, rolled onto his back, and lit up.
Something went terribly, terribly wrong.
We’re still not sure what.
Bobo thinks that the gas coming out the leg of his shorts ignited, and traveled inwards, causing an explosion in the seat of his pants.
Troll thought it was Bob’s new synthetic-fiber parachute-material shorts – they must’ve been flammable or something.
I don’t agree with Bobo – I saw the initial fire blossom right over the middle of his butt, right before the nine-foot tongue of pink fire shot out of his ass, right at my face.
I threw myself backwards, flat on the floor, just in time to save my eyebrows. For days afterwards, my mustache smelled like burnt hair.
All I could see was blazing pink armaggeddon. It took a minute for my eyes to focus. For one horrible moment, I thought the curtains were on fire. I heard screams.
I sat up, figuring no fart ever blown could last more than a few seconds. Fortunately, I was right. My eyes focused. The screams continued.
Bob was face down, bent over the couch. His ass was on fire. Troll had a deathgrip around his waist, and he and Bobo were beating the shit out of him, trying to put the fire out. I leaped up and began beating the shit out of him, too.
The fire went out quickly enough, but the material continued to smolder, and we wound up tearing his shorts off of him and running them into the kitchen, into the sink. Bob rolled on the floor, moaning. His poor ass was bald as an egg, and red as a lobster. He wasn’t badly hurt – not even any blisters – and he later told us that it wasn’t the fire that hurt him, it was Troll’s huge hands whacking him on the ass – Troll was a pretty big guy, and Bob was … well… small for his age… and several blows had fallen a bit further south than they’d been intended, and Troll had in fact fetched him several nasty blows to the 'nads.
There was a burnt, fused hole in Bob’s shorts big enough to put a man’s fist through without touching the edges.
We posted the shorts on the wall of the stairwell as a trophy to our cleverness … and as a warning, for generations to come…
