The King of Farts

I knew this kid in high school who was obsessed with poop. He’d measure every one of his shits – not just the quantity but the consistency. He’d fish out his turds and analyze them based on a series of parameters and record the progress (if that’s the right word) on a chart. He once said his goal was to train his sphincter so that he could poop in one, huge, unbroken turd. Eventually, he claimed to have achieved this, proudly bragging about it one morning at the lockers. He measured it, he weighed it, he photographed it…and would I please accompany him to People’s Drug at lunch to get the film developed because I owed him $12?

The poop talk was incessant. By our junior year, it was the only thing he would talk about. He’d willingly put on weight, then drastically diet until he was super thin, just to see what the effect would be on his shits. He’d launch into long talks about how fat people farts were louder, and could be directed better, but the shits were more broken up and, therefore, skewing his numbers.

Here’s the kicker – this kid’s rich today. He’s some sort of developer or something out west. I follow him on social media the way I follow most people – an annual at-a-glance review to see if he’s dead or has suffered some personal catastrophe. Seeing pain, loss, and suffering inflicted on others is the whole reason we’re all part of Facebook, right? What makes this grim hobby of mine so rewarding is that pain, loss, and suffering are going to happen to everyone eventually. All I have to do is wait long enough…and outlive the people I monitor.

But that’s not what this article is about! I’m here today to write about farts. You see, secretly, I was fascinated by this kid’s biological study. I admired his single-minded, years-long goal to produce one, giant, unbroken turd, carefully layered like a cake in the lo-flow, nearly waterless toilet he eventually jerry-rigged for that purpose. His relentless pursuit of this goal sunk into my subconscious and, for many months in my junior and senior year, I had this recurring dream. A dream in which I was the King of Farts.

Initially, I earned the title in the circus. The inspiration for this probably came from an article I read in a zine that I picked up at the record store, which featured a lengthy historical rant about Roland the Farter. There was a man who could fart on cue and was rewarded with a manor house and a vast acreage. Couldn’t everybody fart on cue, though? Maybe we only thought we could. Maybe the fart kid’s training was leading up to something great for him?

In the dream, my circus career blossomed and I became a national sensation. Not only could I fart on cue, but I was able to levitate using my farts. Sitting Indian style, I’d be able to control my farts so that I would be able to hover about six feet off the ground. Then, with some practice, I was able to move around. As the crowds cheered and screamed, I would flutter around the circus ring on a cloud of farts. I was invited to the White House, I visited all the heads of state, and I was on all the talk shows.

Eventually, I was so in control of my farts that I was able to travel vast distances. Arms and legs crossed, I’d fart my way across oceans and continents, visiting all the places I wanted to see. Villagers would emerge from their huts waving and smiling as I farted my way past them, and I would smile graciously back at them, gently waving my hand like the Pope.

The dreams took me everywhere in the world. It was great being the King of Farts. Ah, the things we lose to childhood, eh? Now I’m an adult and I have to work really hard not to fart when I cum in your mom.