Back in my school days, I used to have some of the funniest times in our French class. The teacher was easy-going, and the class itself a nice group--if occasionally somewhat out of control.

One time, both me and the guy sitting next to me, Bill, had flatulence. As a small joke, we haf a farting competition for the remaining 10 minutes, with him winning by a small margin.

There is something inherently funny about farting, and everybody found it hilarious (if disgusting) after we told them about it.

We decided to have a rematch.

The next competition was much more organised than the first. This time, a forfeit was put in place: the loser had to chug a bottle of cheap supermarket Vodka mixed with double cream and a jar of hot chili pepper at a big party taking place the next weekend.

Both competitors, in secret, were planning ahead. Starting the day before the competition, I began eating a lot of eggs. I made myself mexican fajitas for lunch, and asked my mother to cook an indian vindaloo for dinner. I snacked on asparagus, and other raw vegetables.

The day of the competition, I began swallowing air. I continued my diet, starting with a mixed-bean breakfast, and throughout the school day I munched on nachos.

By 3 O'Clock I was ready. Competition was in 15 minutes.

Then, the unthinkable happened. I began feeling a churning in my stomach. I always lay a log every morning, but hadn't that morning. Perhaps it was my special diet, or maybe the nerves. In any case, I knew I would need to birth a monstrosity very soon.

I couldn't poop now though--the competition was around the corner, and to shit I would have waste my gas on a very long toilet fart. I somehow managed to keep it off my mind.

As we entered the classroom, my opponent had a wide grin plstered on his face. He, clearly, had likewise done some preparation. We both sat down gently, a last gesture of respect to two asses which were to be woked harder than ever before.

The rules for the contest were simple: 1. He with the most farts won 2. A fart must be audible, smellable or tactile to count

'Tactile' meant (in situations where one insisted that he had farted and the other denied) that the doubter would feel the farter's seat, and if heat was detected the fart would be awarded.

The teacher entered the room. With a quick nod, we were off. I'd say we both squeezed about twenty out in the first four or five minutes, causing the two girls behind us to move to new seats. A steady stream of (thankfully only) audible and very smellable farts were being pumped out from our productive asses. It was neck and neck.

As I continued simultaeneously swallowing air and farting, like a factory, I felt the unique 'yearning' feeling of a shit brewing. The train was ready to leave the station, and it was packed full. Somehow again putting it out of my mind, I kept farting.

There now remained only ten minutes, and the score was 40 to me and 42 to Bill. In a sudden stream of flatulent nirvana, I popped out five bad-boys in a row, all of them of the most filth smell.

With five minutes left, the score was 46 to me, 44 to him. A look of concentration came to his face as he somehow managed two more in succession.

Now, at 46 to both, there was no more than three minutes remaining, and we'd both ran out of gas. It looked like a draw, like my preparation was in vain. Suddenly, I knew what had to be done.

With confidence, I shat my pants. A nasty, huge log filled my boxers. The smell (identical to those 5 rancid farts) was intense, and lingering. With a bemused look on his face, he acknowledged defeat. Half the crap was in my pants, my asshole gaped, and the other half still was in the brewery. I was in deep shit. Literally.

Luckily, the log had good substance, and didn't detatch, but waited patiently for the rest of its body to be heaved out.

As the bell went, I slowly and carefully walked toward the toilets, and dumped the most vile and hideous shit of my life.

Now, I could celebrate.