15wile
Well-Known Member
Farted in it again. I ate leftover Taco Bell this morning, and on my commute in to work, traffic was backed up like hell on the expressway. I felt the butt quakes approaching in my lower intestine - you know that gurgling, growling, almost-painful warning that a series of death farts are incoming. I tried to dodge and weave my way through the hell-traffic, but that did about as much good as the intro credits to Office Space. The accumulated gas got worse from my attempts to hold it in.
Finally, I slipped my foot off the clutch and pressed my foot on the 4th pedal - which I call the squeeze-out-a-fart pedal, since as far as I know, that is its sole functional purpose.
The fart was dangerous. I knew the leftover Taco Bell meant that trusting the fart was a deadly risk, but I had no choice. The first fart was a solid 11.9 on the Sphincter Scale, and burbled like a misfiring LS motor running ethanol. Even the Prince of Darkness would've taken one whiff of that and said fuck it, and taken the fast bus back down to the Pit. The Death-Fart smelled like a cross between a nacho cheese dorito locos taco (which is already close-ish to shit) and raw sewage deemed too hazardous for a sewage treatment plant. Worse, it was still a bit chilly (the recent cold wave in central Florida was fading away, but it was still cold-ish for Florida Man's taste), so I forgot I had the heater on. Heating a butt quake is never a good idea, and the air made sure to waft the Death-Fart directly into my already overloaded nostrils. And then the butt quake had aftershocks, not quite as deadly on the Sphincter Scale, but terrible in their numbers. The Death-Fart brought friends to the party.
I tried to roll down the window, but as you know, the auto down feature doesn't work right if you accidentally interrupt it. It just stops. And in my haste to the get the window down, I accidentally stopped it. There was a slightly delay as I tapped it twice, trying to get it to continue downward, but this only inched it down again. I took a deep breath in order to concentrate on the task at hand... and then I could taste the heated, cooked, sewage-dorito taco Death Fart. I'm hyper-ventilating trying to successfully get this window down. I finally manage - and notice that the drivers on either side of me are staring directly at me, unsure I'm panicking and constantly putting the window down an inch at a time.
There's a moment where I regret getting the cheap base model and never tinting the windows.
But the Death Fart and its aftershocks are not done with me yet. The swirling air mixture from outside creates a temporary nexus of fart-smell... somewhere in the vicinity of my face. Now I'm shivering, because cold air is starting to intrude into the car, I've got an angry driver behind me honking for me to go, two dudes laughing at me from either side, and I can't get my foot onto the clutch pedal to shift into first because I've got more butt quakes demanding immediate release. I wind up slamming my foot on the clutch anyway, squeezing out a taco fart, shifting into first, letting it go, and timing my farts with each shift. Second? Brrrrrrrrrt. Third? Brrrrt. Fourth. Squeeeeeeeeaaaak. Fifth. *A tuba going off*.
By the time I hit fifth, traffic is slowing again, and the fresh air that had been doing a pretty decent job expelling the farts before they reached my nostrils stops again. The stench hits me again.
Eventually I make it to work, the gurgling taco farts starting to thin out in the elevator... but now I worry how much of this death gas - probably worse than what soldiers launched into enemy trenches at the battle of Verdun - is embedded into the cheap cloth seats of my base model Mustang. When I sit, will I be visited by the ghost of tacos past again?
Who knows... I will find out soon.
Finally, I slipped my foot off the clutch and pressed my foot on the 4th pedal - which I call the squeeze-out-a-fart pedal, since as far as I know, that is its sole functional purpose.
The fart was dangerous. I knew the leftover Taco Bell meant that trusting the fart was a deadly risk, but I had no choice. The first fart was a solid 11.9 on the Sphincter Scale, and burbled like a misfiring LS motor running ethanol. Even the Prince of Darkness would've taken one whiff of that and said fuck it, and taken the fast bus back down to the Pit. The Death-Fart smelled like a cross between a nacho cheese dorito locos taco (which is already close-ish to shit) and raw sewage deemed too hazardous for a sewage treatment plant. Worse, it was still a bit chilly (the recent cold wave in central Florida was fading away, but it was still cold-ish for Florida Man's taste), so I forgot I had the heater on. Heating a butt quake is never a good idea, and the air made sure to waft the Death-Fart directly into my already overloaded nostrils. And then the butt quake had aftershocks, not quite as deadly on the Sphincter Scale, but terrible in their numbers. The Death-Fart brought friends to the party.
I tried to roll down the window, but as you know, the auto down feature doesn't work right if you accidentally interrupt it. It just stops. And in my haste to the get the window down, I accidentally stopped it. There was a slightly delay as I tapped it twice, trying to get it to continue downward, but this only inched it down again. I took a deep breath in order to concentrate on the task at hand... and then I could taste the heated, cooked, sewage-dorito taco Death Fart. I'm hyper-ventilating trying to successfully get this window down. I finally manage - and notice that the drivers on either side of me are staring directly at me, unsure I'm panicking and constantly putting the window down an inch at a time.
There's a moment where I regret getting the cheap base model and never tinting the windows.
But the Death Fart and its aftershocks are not done with me yet. The swirling air mixture from outside creates a temporary nexus of fart-smell... somewhere in the vicinity of my face. Now I'm shivering, because cold air is starting to intrude into the car, I've got an angry driver behind me honking for me to go, two dudes laughing at me from either side, and I can't get my foot onto the clutch pedal to shift into first because I've got more butt quakes demanding immediate release. I wind up slamming my foot on the clutch anyway, squeezing out a taco fart, shifting into first, letting it go, and timing my farts with each shift. Second? Brrrrrrrrrt. Third? Brrrrt. Fourth. Squeeeeeeeeaaaak. Fifth. *A tuba going off*.
By the time I hit fifth, traffic is slowing again, and the fresh air that had been doing a pretty decent job expelling the farts before they reached my nostrils stops again. The stench hits me again.
Eventually I make it to work, the gurgling taco farts starting to thin out in the elevator... but now I worry how much of this death gas - probably worse than what soldiers launched into enemy trenches at the battle of Verdun - is embedded into the cheap cloth seats of my base model Mustang. When I sit, will I be visited by the ghost of tacos past again?
Who knows... I will find out soon.
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