auntie em is right. Those “Toxic Hell” burritos will raise your compression ratio. My friend Henry and I stopped into TB for burritos, and then decide to stop at a local watering hole for a couple of brews to wash them down. It turned into more than a few, so a couple of pickled eggs for snacks were in order. Let me tell you, beans, pickled eggs, and beer is the formula for a human borne, weapon of mass destruction. We left the bar and went on to the store where we were headed. There was a short flight of stairs, then a landing with some newspaper racks and then more stairs up to the second floor. There were three steps and then the stairs turned and went up and the racks were under the stairs. We didn’t notice the little old blue-haired lady that had stopped at the racks to buy a paper. The poor woman’s head was level with Henry’s butt when he discharged his fully loaded methane ass cannon. The sonic boom-like explosion echoed through the stairwell as the noxious cloud rolled over her like the shock wave from a nuclear blast. I expected to look back and see her seared and standing like Lot’s wife fleeing the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. As we left, she was standing there in the stench of Hell’s open sewer, choking and blubbering incoherently. I’m think she said, “God damn you, you pig”, but I’m not sure. I was afraid she was going to have a coronary and that I would have to risk my life and descend into the contamination zone to give her CPR. My friend Henry is definitely in need of a muffler and catalytic converter for his ass.
I miss such gems by not venturing into the Pit more often!
I myself wouldn’t fart in front of anyone for money. I have let some slip in front of my husband, with whom I enjoy a bathroom-door-open sort of marriage. But dogma the last several years has been Mommy Does Not Fart. No sir. Not at all. Any suspicious odors my children might detect are immediately labeled “mysterious” and never explained. I somehow think I won’t get away with this for long.
What the fuck…I’m gonna start rating these. (holds vote card up). I give DaToad an 8.9 for creating a detailed, unforgettable visual. The description of the actual dropping of the toxic bomb is priceless. Actually, I may have rated it higher, but I don’t know what kind of talent is still lurking in the wings. Rock on.
Ellen Cherry, we’re few, but we’re proud. Welcome to the non-farting booth of this flatulence convention. Oh, and…moms NEVER fart.
Yeah, right. I have a very distinct mom fart memory.
We had an oak kitchen table & chairs. One time, mom and I were sitting there eating some Oreo Double Stuf (why do I remember that odd detail???) when she lets one crank. The sound of the fart on the oak chair was amazing. Quite an amplifier.
We looked at each other with surprise and laughed hysterically.
Love ya, mom!
My mom was visiting once and we were sitting on the couch watching TV. Suddenly she jumped up and head for the door across the room. Each step was punctuated with a loud “brrrrrp” which seemed to propel her forward.
Mom don’t fart, my ass.
PPPPFFFHHHTTT!!!
Y’know, I’m seeing a few folks express surprise when their bomb-bay doors open and they drop a butt-bomb. Do you really not know it’s coming? I usually get at least a few minutes’ warning so that I can retire discreetly or (if I’m feeling particularly cruel) position myself strategically for maximum effect.
An old girlfriend had brought me down to meet the family one Thanksgiving. After a huge meal, we’d all plopped on the floor in front of the TV and were watching a movie. Everybody had a toddy, plus her Mom was smokin’ a girt.
Something about smokin’ always made me have to poo. Toddies relax my sphincter. Apparently, her Mom was similarly afflicted.
She was sitting right behind me leaning against the couch with her knees propped up and her rectum couldn’t have been more than three feet from my head. She’s smokin’, she’s drinkin’, and something in the movie made her laugh.
“Phhhaaarrrrrtttt” goes her butt, right at my head. So she’s still laughing but she’s trying to clench her anal choir and this makes the pitch go up and the duration go down.
“Phreeeeettt”
“Wheep”
Silence, then I start bouncing up and down on the floor because I’m convulsing trying to hold gut wrenching laughter in. I’m not making a sound, just bouncing up and down in front of her.
Finally, she excuses herself and heads off to check for shrapnel and we all finally could let out a combined “Bwhaaaaaa”.
I have a friend with farts so potent, they stick to walls.
A couple of friends and I are in my computer room, all playing Neverwinter Nights. One of my friends (we’ll call him AsserBlaster) begins rapid firing his loathsome farts into the room. The stench is pretty bad, but tolerable…or so we thought.
After about two hours of playing, we all decide it’s time to take a break and get something to drink, take a leak, grab a snack, etc. The problems start when we try to go back to playing.
We can’t get near the computer room. The nauseous vapor was like a wall that we could not pass. Bear in mind that the computer room has a ceiling fan that has been going full blast and, since it’s the middle of summer, the AC has also been running non-stop. Also keep in mind that it’s been about 20 minutes since we’d been in the room, and the AsserBlaster hasn’t been able to pollute the air in there in at least that long. We just could not get into the room without gagging.
The staying power of the AsserBlaster’s anal-vapor odor is nothing short of astounding. More examples abound, but I think you get the idea. He thinks it’s freakin’ hysterical.
So many fart stories… so little bandwidth…
I find it oddly amusing that this is probably one of the longest threads I’ve seen in quite a while… three pages and counting. For a MB dedicated to fighting ignorance, I guess there’s no rules about potty humor, eh?
Well, good then.
I think you should all try to learn to use these farting techniques to your advantage. Example: One day I stopped in at Publix to pick up some smokes. Now, this is one of those 1965 Publixes (Publii?) which hasn’t been renovated yet. So there’s one line to buy lottery tickets, smokes, rent a steam cleaner, cash a check, whatever. One customer service line. And the lottery was big that day! So I’m in line behind about a dozen blue-haired lottery hopefuls (this was in South Florida), pissed off because all I need is a pack of smokes and I should get to be in the lung-damaged line instead of waiting for all these retirees to throw away their last dollar. The line finally crept foward. But the guy in front of me refused to step forward. He just stood there, allowing a huge gap in the line, which is just an open invitation to some asshat to cut in line for the elusive winning lottery ticket. I wasn’t having that for a second.
I turned my back to the man, ripped off a truly noxious SBD and magically, he took about three steps forward to get away from my stench. He made his transaction as quickly as possible. I’m tellin’ y’all… it’s the best way to entertain yourself while standing on a particularly long line. And it does speed things along nicely.
On another note: my new rescued Boston Terrier, Hurshell, is so gassy that I’ve re-named him Mr. Stinky. Last night, Mr. Stinky was crashed out on the couch next to me, but his butt was pointing at me. He ripped off a few until I had to pick him up and turn him in the other direction, as the other dog and I were shaking our heads in disgust. His poots are not silent remotely. Always a little Pffffft. Let him fart at the wall and melt the paint, but don’t be pointing your little WMD in my direction…
Count me in as one who would never fart (I can’t stand to say that word even) in front of anyone, hell, I won’t even f*** in front of the dog.
Mr. Honey has never even had to walk into a smelly bathroom after me.
It’s quite possible he thinks I don’t poo.
Yes, that’s exactly what this country needs: another czar. I swear, we’ve got more czars now than Russia’s ever had.
Hey, wait a minute–it’s a pretty good idea! Why not collect all the fumes and lob them in concentrated amounts over Saddam Hussein’s palaces? Talk about your Weapons of Mass Destruction…
I nominate this thread for the Best of the SDMB series. This thread is a pure gem. I’m reading and laughing at the same time all the way through.
Thanks, folks. You’ve made my night. And then some.
Holy s***?
What is that smell?
Oh, sorry.
It’s me.
I’ve been laughing so hard that I farted.
Several times.
Thank God they haven’t perfected smells across the web, yet.
I am reading this at WORK (shh)…and I have tears coming down. Also, for the first time, I actually spit coffee all over the keyboard and had to clean it with alcohol…and that was on page one!
OK, here’s my contribution:
Anyone ever played in a concert band? Maybe in marching band, you can’t tell who cut one because you’re always moving, but in concert band, sittin’ on those metal folding chairs, well, it gives “lower woodwind section” new meaning. Especially for those after-dinner rehearsals.
Myself, I had a plan. 1:Wait until the trumpets are playing (to cover the sound). 2. Let fly with gusto, fortissimo. 3. Imagine the faces of the clarinet players behind you as they take a big breath and try to obtain oxygen before their 8-measure run. 4. Stare at the piccolo player accusingly.
Mission accomplished!!
Does anyone remember Paul Boomer and Lord Windesmere?
Honey! Come sit at our table. No green clouds here! It’s the DMZ of the Straight Dope.
This is the single greatest benefit of being a health care professional. You can fart, and everyone just assumes that it’s one of the patients. As a matter of fact, you don’t even notice most farts. You have no idea what bodily odors we are subjected to on a daily basis. It’s all a matter of perspective I guess.
I have the CD! But I first heard the routine in 1964 on 78 RPM records.
Moms not only don’t fart, they don’t think threads like this are funny.
…and they lie, lie, lie through their teeth when their daughters ask why Mommy is laughing so hard…