November 17, 2010
Y’all wanna know something?
Daryl sits alone in the house and plays with his fart machine and laughs.
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- Sheila Ryan: Nice selection from Robin Gibb’s heyday as lead singer from Bill Crandall in Rolling Stone.
- Casey Cichowicz: And health, wealth, and happiness to those that eat them.
- Sheila Ryan: Eggs.
- Erica: Perhaps we can pick up John Waters.
- Josh Weichhand: Ugh… Yes, to all of the above. Miss you guys. Miss the time I was able to spend here. I miss...
- Sheila Ryan: In the back of my Honda Element, the moveable roadside attraction.
- Sheila Ryan: You are very good. Pray continue in this vein.
- Cooper: You are both very kind. Thank you.
- Erica Braverman: Where’s the world’s largest fork and stack of bacon?
- Casey Cichowicz: Also, I think the new Here We Go Magic album is quite good.
- Sheila Ryan: Also, it is a wonderful story, and I really want to believe it was not a contrived stunt. Damn. I want...
- Joel Bernstein: It was mostly for you.
- Sheila Ryan: Well, you just know I love that, Joel.
- Michael Grant Smith: Cooper’s entire collection of short-short stories in JMWW is a lesson of how to write...
- Sheila Ryan: It’s all in the attitude you take toward non-anecdotes — such as my not having seen the...
We gave our friend Amy a fart-machine for her birthday once. She worked for an advertising agency at the time.
His fart machine.
Was the fart machine named Deron? I think I know that couple.
It’s a multi-fart fart machine. Deluxe. Fifteen different sound effects, all farts.
He has favorites, of course.
Fifteen farts. Dang.
Uncle Rondo woulda liked that, I bet.
I think our site is back up.
“His Fart Machine.” A riff on Philip Pullman’s “His Dark Materials.”
Or Milton.
Whichever.
My brother and I had names for the different sounds of farts. Pronounce this if you can, there was the “Pyrrrrrnt!” (the note rising high toward the end.) Ooo, I’ll have to think. There was also, “The silent, but deadly.”
My brother was a genius when it came to farts. I was not far behind him.
SBD. The acronym.
Not the acroteria.
The acronym.
Sheila.
I adore you.
My ex-husband could do this rapid-fire belching thing that was just amazing. I begged him to teach me, but he just said, “Well, can’t you swallow air?”
Lovin’ and snugglin’, belchin’ and fartin’, Ricky Cameron.
I love this rapid fire, when it comes on the ‘flock. Danny could tell you a bit ’bout your last comment. I so try not to oppress, unnecessarily, folks I love.
Don’t oppress me, opossum.
I don’t particularly care for the word Fart (unless it’s written as graffiti–that’s funny.) I prefer Poot.
Me neither.
(Me, too.)
By the way, after I left Kansas City this weekend — an hour-and-a-half after pulling out — I stopped in Bethany, Missouri and ate at the Toot Toot Restaurant and Lounge.
And the cheese stands alone.
Hi-ho-the-dairio…Michael.
Also.
Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart. Fart.
Also, Michael
Poot. Poot. Poot…ad infinitum. For one who might not care for your vernacular.
XOR
That would appear to be more farts than there is poo on the Bristol Poo Chart.
the cat likes it
Daryl, how do you know the cat likes it?
he jumps
A sure sign.
The dog is fortunately not very prone to gas, but I’ve known some dogs to act embarrassed (for lack of a better word) with their own flatulence. I wonder if that is a product of inadvertent training by their owners’ responses or if it relates to some evolutionary habit of not eating one’s own air biscuits.
Air biscuits.
farting hunters didn’t eat
Nope. Except for air biscuits.
I think I’ve told this before. I rode 14 hours, from Savannah to Northeast Arkansas in the backseat, with a flatulent dachshund named Hans. Hans did not seem embarrassed in any way. The odor was sharp and dog-foody. Tangy. I finally pretended to sleep, burying my face into a pillow crammed in the corner between the seat and the door where some fresh air was seeping in.
[...] Rick Neece: I think I’ve told this before. I rode 14 hours, from Savannah to Northeast Arkansas in the backseat, with a flatulent dachshund named Hans. Hans did not seem embarrassed in any way. The odor was sharp and dog-foody. Tangy. I finally pretended to sleep, burying my face into a pillow crammed in the corner between the seat and the door where some fresh air was seeping in. posted by Deron Bauman in animals, farts, from the comments, smells, travel | * | comment [...]