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Surrealistic Pillow-Biter
There's a new boy in town... camboy that is. Our very own CrotchCannibal has agreed to become a camslut, and already has the wimmen folk in a lather. CC had a wee bit of trouble setting up his cam, but now that he's up and running expect frequent updates, and tons 'o fur-faced fun. Crotchy is more than just a pretty face, though. The following is the first installment of a series he wrote this summer on a subject very near and dear to his ass. 
This Post Is Basically About Farting You ever get in one of those situations where you feel about as significant as amoeba snot and about as valuable to society as a fifty mile long asteroid hurtling towards the earth? Ever do or say something that would make God, if God actually existed, give you one of those really disappointed looks, sigh, and go, "Ugh, you fuckin' suck, loser!"? Well, I've been there on occasion, and I just wanted to offer a small tidbit of advice to others about a surefire method I've devised for extracting oneself from such perspiration-inducing, soul-destroying predicaments. Just fart. That's right, unleash your ass gas. Toot your own horn. Stoke the fecal wind. Punctuate the moment with a burst of your disgustingly putrid butt emissions. Trust me here, kids, nothing but nothing will remove you from harm's way faster than a generous dosage of poo-vapor. And I'm not just pulling your finger here. I can back this theory up with hard evidence. Hard as a petrified lawn cigar. Believe me. So, without further ado, let's have a whiff, shall we? Situation #1: The Date Gone Bad So, I've finally gotten that gorgeous piece-of-ass friend-of-a-friend to agree to go on a date with me. Holy fuckin' peckerpoles, she's hot. I've showered, shaved, dressed in my finest regalia, and screeched to a halt directly in front of her incense-scented, one-bedroom apartment at pre-fuckin-cisely 8:29 PM. In other words, my dick still has a chance of raiding the Ol' Honeysuckle Tomb. If I can stay this consistent for the remainder of the evening, I've got bush. Plus, I remembered to brush my tongue. Fast forward to the restaurant. A fancy one, of course. It's been great so far, the conversation is fuckin' robust. We're gettin' along like gangbusters, laughing like hyenas, and generally eyeballing each other with big happy faces engraved on our peepers. It's goin' good. But, like everything in my life, it's all been merely a setup for disaster. It's been a fuckin' prelude to ruin. It's been a long drive up a steep mountain in a car with sketchy brakes. Story of my goddam life. 'Cause this little, pleasantly aromatic rose garden we've planted is about to magically transform itself into a rather large pile of rhinoceros excrement. And that, my dear friends, is not good.  So we're sittin' there enjoying our Filet Mignon, our bottle of cabernet, and our complementary bread sticks, when along comes this fucking SMOKIN' babe from the other side of the joint. She's got it goin' on, and on, and on. Legs, tits, ass, hair, and lips that could suck my soul through a garden hose. A total fuckin' knockout. So, being the nut-noggined jerk-pea that I am, I gawk like a vulture at a lion kill. I mean, I stared HARD. Couldn't help myself. I might've even muttered a quick "hot damn!", thinking it'd go unnoticed. Well, it didn't.
Fuck me. There's nothing worse you can possibly do when you're out with a girl than to look at another chick. I could've chewed with my mouth open, told her I had genital herpes, even admitted to being a serial killer, and it would've just been water under the bridge. But me gazing stupefied at some bodacious honeymuffin while my poor date sits forgotten is, to put it mildly, a bad move. It's a broomstick in the spokes of romance. It's the squishy sound a body makes when it hits pavement after a four-story fall. In other words, it's all over. No emergency surgery, no CPR, no miracle of modern science for me. I'm fuckin' toast. Sooo... I stare deep into her hate-filled eyes, lean to one side, wrinkle my nose, and cut a loud fart. You shoulda seen her face. Fuckin' priceless. She flashes me a look of "I canNOT believe you just did that!" There's so much rage and embarrassment in her expression that I bet, if she'd had a gun, she would've seriously considered murdering me. Well, boo-fuckin-hoo, slut. I'm stifling my laughter, of course, 'cause farts are hilarious. Somehow, she doesn't seem amused. The patrons at the adjacent table, who've been pretending they didn't hear my bomb go off, are nervously picking at their food and rubbernecking. So, being the caustic funny-man that I am, I look over at them and spit a big chunk of chewed meat into their fuckin' Creamed Barley soup. Motherfuckers. Meanwhile, my date is grabbing her purse. She stands up, pours her glass of wine in my lap, and heads out to find a taxi. I motion for the waitress to bring me the check, put it on my Visa Gold card, leave a 25% tip, and exit the fuckin' building. What a disastrous evening. But, the point is, I got out of it. By farting.  Situation #2: You Fucked Up Bad At Work
Let's just imagine for a second that you've gone and done something really, really horrible at your place of employment. Y'know, your job? You've missed the all-important meeting, you've botched the quarterly earnings report, you never received that super-urgent memo from the CEO. You. Broke. The. Coffee. Machine. In other words, you're totally fucked. Whatever it is you've done, the boss is pissed. Everyone's avoiding you like the plague. So, your boss calls you into the office, closes the door, tells you to "have a seat", and -- this is an important detail -- doesn't sit behind the desk, but just sort've leans against the front of it, towering over you. Oh shit. Well, before your boss starts in with the inevitable tirade, before they open their big fuckin' yapper to chastise you for some pointless bullshit, before you get reprimanded because you've made a couple insignificant "policy breaches"...try this: Yelp in pain, grab your jaw gingerly with both hands, scream out "TOOTHACHE!!! TOOTHACHE!!!", and cut the most thunderous, bellowing fart you've ever attempted in your life. Then, dash out of the office, jump in your car, and speed away -- making sure to cradle your jaw and look pained throughout the whole charade. That's it. That's all you've gotta do. Problem solved, stressful situation avoided, and boring lecture nullified in one fell swoop. Your boss and coworkers will be too stunned to say anything and too shell-shocked to try 'n stop you. If they try calling you at home, just don't answer. And if they try calling you at the dentist, well, believe me...they ain't gonna call the fuckin' dentist. You're off scot-free. So enjoy the rest of your day. When you wake up, you'll have forgotten all about it. Then, the only thing you'll need to worry about is finding a new job in a totally unrelated field. But, c'mon, how hard can that be? I mean, even if you do find a new job and, for some reason, it doesn't work out...hey, at least you've got an escape plan. Another one of life's sticky situations solved with gas power. Situation #3: You've been kidnapped by Islamic Fundamentalists OK, I admit it, those first two examples are some pretty far-fetched scenarios. I mean, would you ever really have a bad date or fuck up at work? Nah, I didn't think so. Never gonna happen. You need a more realistic situation where my "Fart Your Way To Freedom" hypothesis might actually come into play, where you might actually benefit from the expulsion of your malodorous hind-cloud. A situation that could potentially mean the difference between life and death, with life hinging on whether or not you can deliver a resounding butt-boomer and death resulting from an unfortunate, untimely indication that you are "Temporarily Out Of Gas". The kidnapping possibility. Let's say you've decided to take a well-deserved vacation. You've passed on the "usual" destinations: Hawaii, The Caribbean, Paris, Disneyland. Yawn. You want an adventure this time, a real change of pace, a breath of fresh air in your otherwise droll existence. You're off to picturesque... Afghanistan.  Now, maybe you didn't exactly read all of the paragraphs in that vacation pamphlet you checked out at the travel agency. Maybe you weren't exactly "listening" when the travel guy begged you to reconsider. Maybe you haven't exactly been "following world events" too closely for, oh...I don't know...the last twenty, twenty-five years or so. You figured, "Ah, who cares, it's just another slice of the world, right?" You figured, "Hey, I get along with cab drivers all right." You figured, "What the Hell, let's do it honey! Grab the kids 'n let's go!" Well, you my friend are a dumbass. 'Cause Afghanistan is one fucked up piece of real estate. It ain't no friggin' Jellystone National Park. They don't have Yogi and Booboo and picnic baskets. They don't have Ranger Smith. They don't have "smarter than your average bears".
They have wars. Violent, bloody, unrelenting wars. With real guns. In other words...it's kinda dangerous. So, when you find yourself smack dab in the middle of some bombed-out, rubble-filled, bullet-riddled alleyway in deepest Kabul, don't be surprised if you and your family get nabbed by a gang of hooded thugs carrying AK-47's and shouting "funny language" at you. That's what happens to Americans (and don't go pinning maple leafs on your backpack to try 'n avoid controversy, either -- they kill Canadians by the truckload over there). Don't argue, resist, or run away. Just shut the fuck up and get in the van. Then, when they've taken you back to their rundown headquarters to "interrogate" you, remember this valuable token of advice: Fart up a storm. Break wind like a goddam hurricane. Blast the walls with your Hi Fi anal stereo. You'll be on a plane to a neutral country faster than you can whistle 'Dixie' outta yer ass. It's a bona fide guarantee of freedom. Just think about it. Would you really want to blindfold, torture, starve, and butt-rape a putrid, stinky, foulness-emitting American farter and his innocent family just for some meager political gain? Ask a hundred Afghani terrorist factions and they'll all tell you the exact same thing: "Hay-ell No!" Conclusion: So you see, simply by farting the situation is resolved. The stench of life hangs over you like a happy, little cloud and the world is a better-yet-smellier place. It's easy when you toot your troubles away. Life's a gas, so live it like there's no tomorrow. Let the winds of good fortune break across your freshly-sliced cheddar. Reek the day! "And in the end, the rips you take, are equal to the smell you make." - Paul McFartney THE (rear) END
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