Stop farting in my pants.

You heard what I said.

Stop farting in my pants.

I don’t know how you are doing it, but that’s not important. What is important is that I know you are doing it.

Okay, so I’m not quite cemented into who you are, but I’ve at least got it narrowed down. I’ll figure it out soon enough. Whoooo boy, then you’re gonna get it. I’ll embarrass you like you embarrased me. I hope you know, that girl has been here less than two weeks. We’re still busy trying to make an impression on her. Did you see her? Did you see what you did? I’m nearly certain she had tears streaming down her face as she left my office. All because you somehow farted in my pants at least fifteen minutes earlier I don’t know what you are using, but it must be from a creature most foul.

You see. That was your mistake. Just because I had a couple beers last night, doesn’t mean you can fool me today. I know my farts, and you sir, don’t know my farts.

Okay, so it was a couple more than a couple beers.

Okay. A few more.

Okay. Several more. But I’m not going to get hung up on semantics. What is important is that I AM NOT FOOLED. I know my farts. I’ve had friends ask the recipe for my garlic farts. My Salad Shooters[sup]TM[/sup] are crisp, cool, and invigorating. Heck, even my corned beef and cabbage farts leave folks humming a little Irish ditty. This foul stench that coats every object in my office with some sort of mystic library paste of the damned, this aura that has people in the other buildings questioning the glow from the 21st floor of the Piper Jaffrey tower, this is not a product of mine.

I know this smell. The nose knows. The nose remembers. It was early September of 91, about 15 miles North-Northeast of Barnum, Minnesota, when I sunk up past my hip in that muck. That pocket of gas I hit. That is it. That’s the stuff. I can’t misplace that stench. You’ve somehow captured that gas pocket, and are now somehow pumping it into my khakis. And I will soon catch you.

I do get along with the receptionists here, so I better warn you. When I catch you, I’m going to have them do an overhead page. “So and so has been caught farting in John’s pants”. I’m even going to make you apologize to the cute new girl. I’m not sure, but maybe they can page to the entire building, because I’m pretty sure I sensed you lurking behind me in the crowded elevator this morning. If they could page all of downtown, that would be even better. There was a breeze this morning, so I’m pretty sure some people had some spice with their Bernoulli effect.

I am ever vigilant. I will catch the instigator of this incidious plot. Don’t push me.

Looks like a can skip todays workout… My abs are painfully sore from laughing so hard!:smiley:

We cannot let this die, for something must have already paid with it’s life within your trousers, sir!

I’ve heard of talking out of one’s arse, but not talking TO one’s arse. Unless there is somebody else in there, too.

NurseCarmen, I think I love you.

I’m weeping.

Or is it just the tearing caused by that AWFUL stench?

Yet another crime perpetrated by that mysterious master of fartriloquey…

Bastard left a skid mark in my shorts once, such is the depth of his skill and depravity.