I’m a farter.
I love farting.
In fact, most days, I have some reserve in the tank if you will.
Much of the time, I have one ready, in the chamber, locked and loaded and primed to give a loud blast from the bumtrumpet, or the Trump-dumper, at any given moment.
That’s right, I can fart on command.
This anal mastery is not unique to myself.
On day while hanging out at the surf school, one of the instructors’ moms’ was ‘brag-plaining’ about how her sixteen year old son shared ‘the gift’.
I warned her about the pitfalls about certainty. When it comes to flatulence, you can never be sure that your actions are merely gaseous.
Every now and then?
The universe decides to alter the state of what you perceive to be a playful perineum poof of fun.
Every now and then, the universe decides to add density to the gas.
Gasses when condensed turn to liquid.
Liquids when condensed turn solid.
This progression, for those who possess ‘the gift’, can have horrific consequences.
The mitigation of risk
As a firefighter, m…
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