A couple of hours after posting whatever gibberish I've posted, I've usually forgotten all about the blog. This is about the the same time that Mrs. Village Idiot has to start fielding angry and concerned calls from friends and relatives who've just caught up on the adventures of Idiot Boy. Because she got tired of starting so many conversations with "What the hell did you put up there this time?", she's started reading the blog and preparing answers for the various queries we get as to my mental state. "Yes, he's fine, but he really needs a long vacation," is what the kids have been instructed to say.
Apparently she has reached her limit for calls related to cutting the cheese and has forbidden me from publishing anything related to flatulence for at least six months. (Though my lawyer assures me that there are enough loopholes in the agreement that Kicked Puppies will be able to offer full coverage should there be any late breaking wind breaking stories that need investigation).
That is, after this one.
Today we have a special treat. It's our first guest author at Kicked Puppies!
My friend Robb (Yes, that Robb. No, that's not his real name), sent me the following story along with permission to publish.
Take it away Robb:
During law school, my buddies and I got together every Saturday to drink, eat bad food and watch college football, and we'd go out after the day of drinking. One time, we're taking the T downtown and my buddy rips off an inhuman fart - one that's so bad it has an aftertaste. I'm sure you're familiar with the sort, and he follows it up with a few more until we get downtown.
We get to this bar down by Faneuil Hall with those bar tables that are high enough that they're more comfortable to lean on than to sit at, so his ass is just sticking out in the middle of this bar. We're there about a half hour when he leans into the table and lets us know that he's been crop dusting since we got to the place. About 20 minutes later this relatively attractive girl comes up, taps him on the shoulder and says "Excuse me, but have you been farting? We're sitting right behind you and it f'ing stinks." He gets that quizzical look that we've all used and says "No, it's not me, I've been smelling it too." In retrospect, I think the shock of this woman flat out accusing him of crop dusting is the only thing that kept the rest of us from cracking up.
They end up talking, and it happens that she and her 3 friends are in town from Bowdoin or Bates or some other college in Maine that starts with a B. So, the eight of us end up buying a bunch of beer and taking it back to their hotel. One thing leads to another, he ends up sleeping with his inquisitor and the rest of us dutifully wing man for him. During our post mortem the next day, he recounted for us how hard it was to keep his farts to himself for the rest of the night b/c in the closed quarters of the hotel room, his cover would have been completely blown. I can only imagine the reaction in the room had he let loose after he had done his business. Now that would have been funny. Still, the best bar pick-up I've ever witnessed.
The editorial team at Kicked Puppies will of course handsomely reward anyone who can find the lass and get her to read about her folly. It wouldn't really be heartbreak... fartbreak maybe? I know, that's bad. At least I didn't say she was attracted by colon rather than cologne....
Ok, that's it. I promise, tomorrow we'll clean this place up.