War Is Hell
by Quint
A few years back I went with a friend to see the Clint Eastwood-helmed movie Flags of Our Fathers. Having not yet eaten dinner, I foolishly decided it would be in my best interest to pick up the numero seis from Taco Bell. To those of you who are not TB enthusiasts, the numero seis (that is number six for our Spanishly-disabled readers) consists of two chalupas and a hard taco. In quite a rush, I was forced to pocket my dinner and smuggle it into the theater like contraband.
Once I finished liberally bathing my tacos in hot sauce and jettisoned the used packets with their clever sayings to the floor with nary a thought as to how they could improve my life, I consumed my dinner ravenously. By the time the trailers were over some 800 years later, I had finished gorging and arranged my bloated body into a reclining position by propping my neck awkwardly against the seatback and sliding my ass halfway off the chair.
And so the farting began…
I should have known better than to eat Taco Bell that evening, as they are aligned with the fast food industry; and generally anything fast (women, automobiles, cocaine) equates to serious risk (herpes, accidents, clubbin'). However, due to a serious lack of time, my options were limited. To make matters worse, my stomach had been sensitive all afternoon. I first detected the rumble of gas build-up inside of my guts shortly after lunch. It may have had something to do with the fact that my diet is atrocious and typically consists of alcohol, beef, cheese, pizza, and hot wings. I don't know. I never claimed to be a gastroastrologist or whatever.
So as I sat there
staring up at the big screen (with a belly full of America's version of
Mexico's greatest export as prepared for me by American-hired Mexican
expatriates), my stomach rumbled like Jackie Chan as I prepared to give
birth to what would be the first of many dirty bombs that evening. I lifted
my ass cheeks off the seat ever so slightly and struggled to slip out
as little of the toxic steam as humanly possible so as not to completely
level the theater and everyone around me. Christ, I should have been given
a medal for my efforts, cause I probably saved countless lives in the
process! The first wave dissipated into the theater as the sweat trickled
down my temples. I waited for retaliation and held my breath as the seconds
ticked by-not out of suspense, but because I didn't want to breathe any
of the air that had just escaped from my wretched asshole.
A minute went by and my friend never batted an eye. If he noticed, then he absolutely would have known it was me because the theater simply wasn't crowded enough that I could pass the blame onto someone else, as I usually do when my bodily gases fatally pollute the lives of those around me. That is, unless of course my friend happened to be farting at the same time, resulting in our individual butt fogs collecting to form some sort of hybrid superfart that could not be killed by human weapons. These were the thoughts going on in my head. THAT is how bad it reeked in the theater.
I blasted out another spicy chulupa cloud, sure that this time my friend's eyes would begin to tear and he'd run stark raving mad out into the night, ripping his hair out all the way. I even breathed a little that time. It smelled as bad as you could possibly imagine. I would equate it to rotting carcasses that have been left outside in a dumpster during a heat wave and shot at with super soakers filled with diarrhea and curdled milk. Honestly, I think the terror threat level rose to orange. And yet, still no reaction from my friend. I'll admit that he happened to be suffering from brain damage at the time, but he never mentioned any olfactory damage. Then again, maybe he just hadn't thought of it. He WAS brain damaged, after all.
"Oh God, when will it stop," I implored to any celestial body who would listen as the farting continued. In retrospect, I can tell you that it would NOT stop for 132 minutes-which happened to be the exact running time of that goddamn movie! The pollution became so bad that I started to worry that I might have damaged my friend's brain even worse. He stared at the screen completely unaware of the horrors around him. Surely he must have noticed!
The movie ended. We exited the theater and walked to my car in silence. The farting opted to remain in the theater, as all such demons tend to do when the timing is no longer opportune for them to unleash hell on as many as possible. Perhaps standing up and moving around quieted the gas a little (again, no GI here). All of a sudden I decided that I couldn't stand it anymore and I had to know what kind of ubermensch I was in the presence of…for no mere mortal could withstand such nasal destruction (barring the creator of said evil, of course, which could not even be said to be true in this instance).
"Dude, I was farting like a sonofabitch the entire time we were in there," I said.
"Man, I was starting to think someone at the theater wanted to make the place smell like dead bodies to go along with the war theme," he laughed.
The odor emitted from my ass that night was more offensive than a fisting porno starring Dakota Fanning and the Harlem Globetrotters. I'm telling you, if I killed a thousand horseshoe crabs and transported them to an empty lot in Newark, NJ to rot in the hot sun, and then let High Pitch Eric toss his dirty diapers at their prehistoric skeletons for a year straight, I promise you that you would prefer to vacation there for a week rather than endure the bog of eternal stench that was that movie theater for just over two hours that night.
Rarely is one burdened by a gas so nauseous that he becomes disgusted with not only himself, but all of humanity. When that time comes, you will know it, and it will be a sad day for you indeed.
