Most people, whether they admit to it or not, enjoy the smell of their own farts. Some people enjoy the smell of other peoples farts, or at least find them amusing.
Usually, I get certain degree of satisfaction when I’ve dropped one; I enjoy the really big loud waiting-room clearers that smell more musty than deadly, in fact, thinking about them now this morning, I feel almost filled up with nostalgia, or noxiousalgia if you will.
Once again I was woken up in the middle of the bloody night by cramps, though this time I didn’t need to get up and empty my back, this cramp was cleared with a succession of controlled bursts of wind. I took my time as I didn’t want to follow through, lying on my side they hissed slowly out… steady, steady… another, yes…Oooh, that one had a bit of a tail, caught it in time, relax, not that much, concentrate…JESUS CHRIST!
The smell that hit me was enough to make me gag, and for someone who has spent a good few years as a nurse in a care home that’s really saying something. Enjoy the smell of ones farts? I’d rather be tied up by the cast of Last of The Summer Wine and be given bukkake with Nora Batty diddling herself off with my tool.
I was forced out of my bed, not just to open the window but to continue my work on the appropriate seat. I sounded like a squadron of Lancaster bombers and can confirm that that I woke Cunt up. So some good came out of it at least.
Last night I’d treated myself gently, I stayed off the pop, ate fresh vegetables and salmon and drank a whole litre of Innocent cherry and strawberry smoothie. By the time I went to bed to read my stomach was feeling all right, I was confident that I done enough to cure my ailing insides. But clearly I’d not.
After the 4am scramble I managed to get to sleep but as soon as I woke this morning, I was back on the 6’s and 7’s. By now there was no need for gasses to propel my effluvia, vast jets of liquid acid drained from my being like a fire hose as I sat dispassionately on the throne waiting for it to pass.
When I arrived into work even my boss noticed that my usual spring in my gait and pallor was one of that of a man who was suffering from an upset of the stomach. He took pity on my and gave me a supply of Gaviscon cool to assist my passage through the day, or should that be to assist my passage, period.
My stomach has swelled up a la African infant with malnutrition and the though of farting has become a distant dream, a fantasy of the well and healthy. I’d give my eye teeth to let rip without worry that it wouldn’t end in the sour apple quickstep to my black bitch and home to change my pants.
I urge you all to fart one out for me, and think how lucky you are.
You’re lucky to hear this too.