It is with the utmost mortification that I relate the following story to my esteemed readership. It was two years ago. I was leading a dissipated and profligate life, and I have since then atoned for my sins and turned to matters spiritual, largely due to what had transpired that fateful night, which I'm about to relate.
It was cold, grey, dank, drizzly October, and the water from the day's earlier rains ran brown and muddy through the open gutters that line our streets of Almaty, Kazakhstan. One of my colleagues, a worn-out old hack with reddish chestnut-dyed hair from the US who came to Central Asia on a Fulbright Grant, invited me to her apartment for dinner. Not wanting to insult the old prude, I reluctantly accepted, solacing myself with the fact that the old prig had promised me reading materials to be used in my own work. Well, I got to her place only to find out that the books she promised were already in my ownership and the meal that she promised would be strictly vegetarian, as the old poo had some kind of heart condition -- not a lick of fat or protein that might stick to my ribs or provide some rib and backing for a stool sample.
The rain picked up outdoors.
When over dinner this old bluenose started up with the bit about "women in this part of the world not having self esteem," about "not knowing how to limit men access to their bodies," I began to squirm uneasily in my chair. Furthermore, antibiotics that I had taken to rid myself of the non-gonococcal urethral infection I had picked up from the piquant vagina of the daughter of one of my local colleagues -- a daughter who had no doubt not properly instructed me on how best not to access her body -- had all but rid my GI track of its salutary microbial floral and fauna.
Rumble, rumble! Bloop, blurp! went my intestines! Again I squirmed and the borborygmus in my stomach and small intestines churned ineluctably right at the point when the old comstock voiced her disdain of the government for the fact that "the pretty young prostitutes are left to sell themselves on Almaty's streets." The beleaguered many miles of my intestines had heard enough! They wanted to scream freely! Wanted to express a different morality! Wanted the much-lauded American freedom, freedom, freedom.
My memory is murky, muddy, muddled, but I remembered having sorely regretted not having ducked into her convenient shitter, located just off the entrance to her apartment. Yes, yes: I was afraid of how I would have blushed after having gone into her shithouse, how an unseemly din would surely have arisen from the innards of the plumbing of her modest room of "deep thinking," and how I would eventually emerge from such room, a murky green cloud cutting a path before me. But, no. Such was not to have been.
A hurried and embarrassed parting. Outside the rain poured in torrents, but as I tried to make my way up the hill, my bowels stood ready to sear open and spill out their vile contents.
I barely made it to the intersection of Zheltoksan and Chevchenko streets, sweat pouring with the rain from my brow, when I was forced up onto my tippy-toes, inching out baby steeps up the steep grade as I squeezed my ass cheeks together in a futile attempt to hold back the inevitable gushing visceral onslaught. I stopped at one point, the rain pelting my face, the muddy murky waters gushing down through the gutters that line Almaty's streets.
Terror-struck, I remembered the accounts of avalanches and mudslides from Almaty's pre-Soviet and Soviet past; but these, I said, happen only in the spring, with the melting snows, the pouring spring rains. The ineluctable accounts flooded into my head, as, in my mind's eye, I saw reservoirs wash down from their mountain heights, carrying away villages, people, cows, with vacuous looks on their faces, still dully masticating as they swept downward to their ineludible doom.
Above me, impervious to my torments, a young, attractive brunette of about thirty was combing her hair and standing in the window, in her underwear, as the room flashed first purple and then bright orangish-yellow from the television. I could neither hold back the inevitable torrent pressing against my distended fundament nor inch forward further toward my apartment as I promised myself that I would throttle but a small portion of the contents of my bowels into my underwear. SSPllllllll -- a wet gushy fart, and a steady stream of fetid material followed.
Rumble, rumble! Bloop, blurp!
I had heard accounts of people watching their appendages fly off, or their bones break and rip through their clothing; so you might well imagine my horror as I watched the backside of my grey pants grow, seemingly exponentially, the checkered pattern becoming more salient. I ducked behind the dumpster below the window of the comely young lady's home, my eyes scanning around uneasily. Ascertaining that I wasn't being watched, I dropped my pants to my ankles, joyous, stripping down to my birthday suit to fire a veritable torrent of diarrhea, ending by firing a tri-state buckshot blast of a fart against the steel wall of the dumpster, which sounded as if someone had released a firecracker in a sewer pipe. I then removed the dung-stuffed undies. Not a molecule had run down my legs! Equally amazing was the fact that it had almost no smell.
I called down a thousand curses on the lost maidenhead of my colleague's daughter, on the cursed practice of a few overzealous prescribers of antibiotics, and finally on the head of the old puritan and her antiseptic vegetarian fare.
Today, I can assure my fellow FART readers that I have paid for my reprobate ways, and that very evening I dispensed with the antibiotics. With the dawn of the next day, groaning and stretching in bed, I blasted a loud, airy fart -- overcome with joy at the renewal of my anus' odiferousness.
