Artie went to the doctor. The doctor prescribed some bean-o and then ran out of the room. Artie ripped another fart and the nurse imploded. How would he ever find a girl to share his pathetic life with? He rode his scooter to the brothel, but they would not let him near the place. Then he rode into the mountains and boned some deer.

Artie's lungs were filling up with the poison fart dust. The only way for him to clear his lungs out was to hang upside down and have a badger claw his nuts. Artie walked around looking for a badger hole. He found the perfect one on the side of a cliff. Artie hung down and placed his nuts on the edge of he hole. He sprayed mink oil on them and waited. Nothing happened. He fell asleep in that position.

Artie woke up screaming. His stomach was churning like it was going to explode. He yelled. Something was feeding in there. It was like two tapeworms were spaghetti wrestling. Artie pinched his nose and closed his eyes. He tightened his abs and tried to push out a poo. The tail of a garter snake emerged from his ass. Artie pushed harder. The snake violently wiggled itself back into his ass. Artie pushed even harder and the snake shot out into the air. In it's mouth was a small neon frog from the Amazon.

Artie felt better. He rode his scooter back to his apartment. He no longer had gas.

“Jarvis you greasy fuck, why you drinking that piss?”

“This is expensive beer,” said Jarvis.

“Lemme try.” Ralph pulled the brew away from Jarvis and polished it off. He farted and then left.

“What a fucking assplow,” said Jarvis to the other turds.

El Barto finally spoke. “Let’s beat the shit out of him.”

“Yeah right. That turd been roasting behind a blacksmith shop. He’s hard as a rock.”

“So what. We wait till he’s drunk off his ass and then we drop a brick on him. Squarsh him till he oozes.”

“I’m game,” said Jarvis. “Any you fuckin turds up for teaching Ralph a lesson?” The rest of the turds stayed silent.

Ralph finished off his Thunderbird and then passed out behind a dumpster. He pissed himself and then started snoring. Jarvis and El Barto found him. They looked around for a brick but couldn’t find one. A stray dog walked by and gobbled up El Barto.

“Shit,” said Jarvis. The dog looked at Jarvis and started running toward him. Jarvis hauled ass to where Ralph was sleeping and slid under the dumpster. The dog reached the dumpster and heard Ralph snoring. It walked around to where Ralph was sleeping and gobbled him down. Ralph didn’t even wake up.

Jarvis waited a couple hours until the dog left and went back to the bark to pound some beers. A week later Ralph came through the door. Ralph was a mean bully of a turd. He came out of a dog.

“Can you repeat that number again,” said Dr. Springbarf.

“You heard me right,” said Dr. Plow. “And they cover all expenses.”

“Unbelieveable. Do they need anyone else?”

“Why? You thinking of getting into the exploration racket?”

“For that kind of money I’ll do anything.”

“Would you cornhole Hairy Maude?”

“I would.”

“Would you cornhole Greasepit Wanda?”

“Who says I haven’t.”

“You serious? You back-doored a patient?”

“No way. Not with this dick. I would back-door her with Rasputin’s pud, maybe.”

“You would? Rasputin’s pud. You’re on.”

“What do you mean ‘I’m on’?”

The next day Dr. Plow got to his office early. His personal assistant Maude was already there.

“Good morning Dr. Plow,” said Maude. “The coffee is still brewing.”

“Good morning Maude. I need you to write a letter for me.”

“Sure. Who to?”

“Find out where Rasputin’s penis is being held.”

“Rasputin?”

“Yes. He’s a Russian mystic from the 1800s. The pud is probably in Russia. When you find out where, write a letter requesting that the pud be shipped here for analytic dna testing. State that we will be able to verify that it is his penis and the usual stuff. Word it so that they know this is urgent.”

“Ok Dr. Plow. I’ll have a draft ready in ten minutes. Do you want them to send the dick here or to the laboratory?”

“My house. Why isn’t the coffee ready?”

Two weeks later Dr. Plow received a package. From the outside it looked just like his subscription to Omaha Steaks. But on the inside there was a pasty-white, bloated dick. Dr. Plow called up his buddy.

“Hello,” said Dr. Springbarf.

“Plow here. You gotta come over to my house. I got the most amazing cigars. Real Cuban.”

“I’ll be right over after I finish with this patient.”

“Sew em up and get over here.” Click.

Dr. Plow made another call.

“Hello,” said Greasepit Wanda.

“Hello Wanda, this is Dr. Plow. I need you to swing by my house to notarize some documents.”

“Oh. I’m actually very busy right now. My boyfriend’s making our anniversary dinner.”

“Trust me Wanda, this will be worth your while.”

“You’re not gonna get me over there and then have some guy with Rasputin’s dick strapped on try to cornhole me?”

“No. Of course not. Why.”

“Well that’s what happened the last time someone wanted me to notarize some documents after nine forty seven PM.”

“Shit.” Dr. Plow hung up.

“You better not,” said Madge, his mom, while they drove home in her Buick. “Your father, rest his soul, and I paid good money to get you into rehab, and you want to go out and spear some strumpet. Harvey, I can’t believe you.”

“I was just joking Mom. What I really need is a good strong cup of coffee. The splosh they serve in there must come from the waste treatment plant. I think the chef pisses in the muesli so he doesn’t have to walk to the bathroom.”

“Harvey, I don’t want to hear any of this. We’re gonna get you home, get you a nice bowl of soup and you can read a book and think about your disease.”

“It’s not a disease Mom. It’s an addiction. A disease is bad for one’s health. Pumpin hookers is good for one’s health. I mean look at my abs, all flab. When I’m packin regularly I got a six pack, my skin looks good, my balls aren’t hanging down to my ankles aching with desire. In fact drop me off at Stankville, I’m hungry.”

“Oh Argus if you’re listening. Listen to what your son is saying. Please make him stop. I know he doesn’t mean it.”

“Dad can’t hear you Mom,” said Harv. “He’s dead. Gone. I’m the man of the house now and I need some action. You better lock up the guinea pig cause I’m getting randy.”

“Harvey, you stop this instant or you’re gonna be walking home!”

“Let’s see, how many brothels are there on the way home? Let me count.”

“That’s it.” Madge pulled the car over and waited.

Harv just sat there. After a second he pulled out his pud. “It’s ok Nelson, we’ll get you something real soon. I know you’re hungry.”

“Get out!”

Harv holstered his pud and opened the car door. He got out and walked to the back and tapped the trunk twice. Madge popped the trunk. Harv pulled his pud back out and stuffed it into the tail pipe.

“You almost done back there?” said Madge. The car started shaking. “Oh no you’re not! Oh no you’re not!” Madge got out of the car and ran to the back.

Harv gave it one more swift pump and then collapsed on the street. Madge pulled him away from the car and covered his pud with a scarf. She picked up here phone and called the clinic.

“He’s the last of the true Scandinavian Sexbeasts,” said Charlotte Crudodeflap, a self-confessed Super Tiny Wang enthusiast. “His moves make your toes curl and your nub sizzle. Pure ecstasy.”

Martha from the corner store describes his techniques as “from the future” which is not too far from the truth. Bary does in fact have a vapor dong, a tiny laser embedded in his penis that projects a pud that’s nine inches long and almost four inches in diameter.

Barry invented the vapor dong out of necessity. He was born with an average size dork like most people. Unfortunately when he was six years old he slipped into a barrel of fish oil and was stuck there for two days. When he was finally rescued, his chump had shrunk down to a centimeter long.

Doctors tried for two weeks to re-inflate his slab but nothing worked. They even suggested pulling the meatstick off a chimpanzee and stapling it onto his pud, but Barry’s mother would have none of it.

So Barry went through high school with a very embarrassing micro-stump. In college though, he started hanging out with a gang of tough guys with small loafs. The ladies couldn’t seem to get enough of these dudes. They had women crawling all over them. And the women all knew about their shortcomings. The gang had a secret, a magical book of love making techniques that made up for the stump. The book was called “How To Make Love to a Woman if You Only Have a Three Centimeter or Less Weiner.”

Barry studied that book and sure enough he was pleasing ladies all over campus. By the time he finished his degree in atomic physics he had slept with seventy percent of the women in his graduating class.

But there was something missing. Something almost primal. Barry knew that he could satisfy women, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he wanted them to scream from their deepest insides from the thrusting of his tubesteak. And that’s when he got a grant from the government to research the vapor dong.

Things moved rapidly forward. Barry hired a defense specialist (with a dwarf-dick) from what was then East Germany and built a state-of-the-art laboratory in a mountain cave. Within two years they had a working prototype that was tested on goats. It worked half the time, and the other times it would slice the goats in half. Needless to say they had a lot of goat rib dinners.

Finally they had success with a miniaturized laser lattice. Barry applied for a patent and now owns the only vapor dong company in the western world. And the ladies are lining up to take it for a ride, or, more accurately, to get ridden.

Margaret walked down to the post office with eighteen dildos tied to a rope. She entered the post office and said hello to Bull the postmaster. Bull opened the door to the back room and let Margaret through. Margaret set up the dildos evenly spaced on the floor, sharp end up. She balanced a golf ball on the tip of each one. Bull pulled out a #4 driver and set up near the first dildo. Margaret blew two short bursts on a whistle. Bull whipped the driver in a nice arc and pounded the golf ball into the wall. Margaret farted. And that’s how the golf tee was invented.

Herb liked to play his guitar on the beach. He sat on a small pile of driftwood and strummed the strings imagining a fancy woman with two butt holes was dancing in front of him. Herb closed his eyes as tightly as he could and tuned out everything except the rhythmic pulse of the surf and his own guitar. He cleared his mind until all he could see was white and as thin wisp of smoke floating towards him. The smoke started to circle around and around. Then it formed a figure eight and started growing. Gary focused harder and the smoke turned into a woman. The woman turned around to face Gary and blew him a kiss. Then she turned and bent over and hosed two greasy stream of diarrhea smoke out her dueling rectums. And that’s how two butt holes were invented.

Mr. Loomis was just your average garage mechanic. He was very good at his job. Everyone in town trusted Mr. Loomis with their motor vehicle. Beth, the bank owner’s wife, brought in their Range Rover to be serviced. There seemed to be a problem with the brakes. It sounded like there was a rock stuck in the right rear brake drum. Mr. Loomis told Beth to leave it overnight. He let her borrow the loaner car. When Beth drove off Mr. Loomis drove the Range Rover onto the lift and raised it up. She was correct. There was a rock stuck in the right rear brake drum. Mr. Loomis pulled off the drum and cleaned out the debris and then reassembled the brake. Everything was fixed. Mr. Loomis lowered the Range Rover and opened a bottle of cheap champagne. He put on a nice record and danced around the garage. The record ended and Mr. Loomis was out of champagne. The store was already closed so there was no alcohol available nearby. In his frustration of the night cut short, Mr. Loomis pressed the champagne flute onto the end of his dick and then stuffed it repeatedly into the tailpipe of the Range Rover. And that’s how the glass-pack muffler was invented.

Myrtle heard the door forced open. Milton didn’t. “Milt, someone’s here,” she whispered. Milt tightened his abs and blasted the rest of his shit and then pulled on his pants.

“If it’s Larry again I’m gonna kill him.”

“Don’t hurt him,” she said. “He just lost his brother.”

“I don’t care if eighty pounds of cat worms fell on his grand ma. If he’s trespassing, I’m gonna pump him full of holes.” He chambered the shotgun.

Larry walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. “I’m home honey,” he yelled. The fridge was filled. “When did you go shopping?”

Milton came out of the bedroom. “Larry. This ain’t your house no more. You and Myrtle are separated.” He sniffed the air. “You been drinking again?”

“What’s it to you? You a big man with your shot gun? You gonna shoot me?”

“I will if you come closer. Now close the fridge, put that chicken finger back and get the fuck out of here.”

“I ain’t going no where. This here’s my triple wide too. My name is on the deed. See for yourself. In fact, let’s ask Myrtle.” Larry stepped towards the bedroom.

Milton pumped the shotgun. “Larry, I’m warning you.”

“Or what? You won’t shoot me.” He walked into the bedroom. Myrtle was under the covers. “You nude sweety?”

“Larry, what are you doing here?" she said. "I told you a thousand times. We’re not together any more. Please leave.”

Milton pressed the barrel against the back of Larry’s head.

“You don’t scare me Milt.” Larry unbuckled his jeans and let them fall to the floor. “Why you cornholing this twirp, Myrtle? He’s a spineless no good. Who cares if he manages the gas station.” Larry dropped his briefs and let his dick fall to the floor.

“Larry, you put your pants back on and get the fuck out of here. This is the last time.”

Larry turned around slowly to face Milton. “Now Milt. Do you see why she’ll never give me up?” He hoisted his dick and flipped it over his shoulder.

“That thing ain’t real.”

Larry grabbed his shaft and whipped the shot gun out of Milton’s hands. Milton just stood there.

“I’m sorry babe,” said Milton. “I’m gonna be going now.”

“You can’t leave me here," she said. "He’s drunk.”

“I’ve been drinking,” said Larry. “ But I sure ain’t drunk. I can still get a boner.” He thought real hard about his seventh grade teacher. Slowly the turgor pressure inflated his wang.

Milton ran out the door.

“Now, where were we?” said Larry.

“I hate when you get like this. Milton is a very nice man. He has manners, unlike you. He takes care of me.”

“But does he take care of you?”

“No. No one fucks like you Larry. Is that what you want me to say?”

“In a nutshell.”

“No one fucks like you. But fucking ain’t everything Larry. You have no future. We have no future together.”

Larry’s boner slowly deflated. “What do you mean we got no future. We had everything. Two TVs, this triple wide. I even got you a propane stove. What more do you need?”

“I want to see things Larry. I want to go places. I want to go to Italy and drink wine in a gondola.”

“What in the fuck is a gondola?”

“It’s a boat that you rent to make love in on the canals.”

“All we been through and you want to make love on a boat. We can do that. Just take me back baby. I need you.”

“You don’t need me Larry. You got your dick and your car. I heard you’ve been seeing Bertie Lou.”

“Who told you that?”

“Flossie.”

“And you believe her?”

“Well have you?”

“No. I went over there because her son owed money to the store. Mr. Newell sent me over there to collect it.”

“Anyway,” said Myrtle. “You can leave now.”

“Alright.” Larry pulled his briefs back on and then dropped them again. “You sure you don’t want to rumble in the jungle? I got some rubbers and wine.”

“What kind of wine?”

“It’s from France.”

“Chateaux St. George?”

“No. Chateaux d’Aiguilhe. It’s a Count von Neipperg estate.”

“You know where the glasses are.”

One day the most beautiful woman in the universe met the ugliest man in five counties. His name was Cornbuk Weevildong. Cornbuk was so ugly that catfish barfed when they saw him through the water. Cornbuk looked like he was made out of peanut brittle. His eyes were on top of each other instead of side by side. His nose was upside down. He made Mr. Potatohead look like Admiral Poondazzler. Cornbuk had never been laid, well, by a human. And most sheep weren't willing to admit carnal knowledge if you had asked them. You would think that Cornbuk would have taken to drinking to solve his problems, but you would be wrong. He was totally straight edge. No booze, no smoke, no snuff, no huff. Though one day he did get a headache from gluing together a model helicopter.

The day that Cornbuk laid eyes on The Most Beautiful Woman in the Universe, he was driving a tractor into town to sell some leeks. While they were weighing the leeks and counting out the money TMBWITU was buying some leeks for her fabulous leek and cat worm sorbet. She looked at him and vurped. A vurp is a vomit burp. She sat on a hay bale to catch her breath. Cornbuk noticed her out of the corner of his eye. She looked just like his second grade teacher. He walked over and whipped out his hogan. It was about three feet long and had a rose tied to it. She smelled the flower and instantly felt better. When she looked up and saw who the rose was attached to, she almost barfed again. But she didn't. Instead she took a deep look into his eyes, trying not to look at the rest of him and introduced herself. Then the universe exploded.

I don't really know why fart gas has that effect on me. When I was a kid I didn't fart at all. Not until I was seven. I am guessing that the lack of breathing farts means my tolerance never built up. My body chemistry is such that the methane in farts has the same effect as nitrous oxide (laughing gas) has in other people.

I was in the Cub scouts the first time I was subjected to severe fart intake. We were on our first camping trip and I had to sleep with Artie "The Ox" Pifgenoe. The pup tent was very confining. As soon as the zipper went up, Artie's ass began screaming. Farts were tearing out. They weren't used to being out in the open so they found the first place they could to go back into hiding. My nose. I was huffing so much fart that my face turned blue.

Then I started laughing. My stomach cramped up so hard that I fractured a rib. I was laughing and laughing. It hurt so bad that I was crying. And The Ox stayed asleep. Luckily the Scout Master heard me and tore the tent open with a machete and dragged me into fresh air. I was chopper lifted to the hospital so that the doctors could study me.

The doctors found nothing wrong with me. I was put through test after test but they all came up unconclusive. Eventually the psychologist did a thorough analysis on me and traced my problem back to my parents.

Apparently, before I was born, my Dad has such intestinal problems that he was always leaking fart gas. My Mom, in order to survive, built up antibodies in her system that neutralized the gas before it even reached her smelling sense. When I was growing in her stomach, I had zero exposure to fart gas. Though I do remember playing with a tapeworm.

In addition to my lack of exposure to fart, the psychologist found something else interesting. The sound of a fart had just as much effect on me as the actual fart gas. All I had to do was hear a fart and my brain chemistry would produce a laughing effect. I was put under a cat scan while listening to a tape of dog farts and they plotted my brain activity. Sure enough, the farts produced the same effect as someone huffing a tank full of NOX.

Plungers In The Mist
Saxon practices his
plunge techniques on
top of Mt. Tabor.

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“This ought to burn through the wax.” Myrna stuck her ass out the window and firehosed a stomach full of diarrhea at Jim’s shelter.

Jim jumped out of his box. The rhea splashed everywhere but somehow missed him. He pulled a swig from his bottle. “Gawd damn Myrna, you better cork that greasy butthole before I come up there and cork it with my Hogan.”

“Open your mouth Jim. Bet you haven’t had a hot meal in weeks,” said Jeff.

Myrna pulled her ass back in the room and wiped with the curtain. “Honey, we gotta get out of this Chuck Norris motel. When the winos know me by name, it’s time to go.”

“Baby. Just one more night. As soon as I get my van back, we’ll be on the road again.”

“Good. Cause. Hey careful with that boner.”

“What?”

Jim whacked at the trail of ants leading from the trash can into the television.

“One of them ants crawls up your dickhole and you can say goodbye to making love to me again.”

“Myrna. I’m just playing with them. This ain’t my trunk. I’m not an ant eater.”

“Well why don’t you wash that slab off and put it to some good use.”

“You wanna shower?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me go in there first and vacuum the roaches up. Then I’ll get the water hot for us.” Jeff walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

Myrna stuck her ass out the window again. The diarrhea fountained onto some guy’s motorcycle. “Hmm. I thought I was done.”

Two weeks ago I was looking on the internet for my friend Lithium Jim. I found his phone number and called him. We agreed to meet in Fresno. Then he calld me back and said he’s in my car. I go to my car and open the doors and the trunk. He isn’t in there. But then he insists that he’s there and that I just need to smoke some reefer. So I hit the bong and blast my brain. I’m caughing, hotboxing the car and the smoke starts to suck into the glove compartment. Like there was a vacuum in there. I opened it up and Lithium Jim is looking out. I pop the hood and he jumps onto the parking lot. We went to a motel lounge and picked up some hookers. I didn’t see Lithium until breakfast.

A couple years later he emails me and asks me to crack a password on his boss’s computer. I tell him that I don’t do that shit. He drives up to my house that night. We order some hookers and then when I’m just about to wad he crashes through the door on a mountain bike and rides over my foot and I jump while my choad is still warm and now I have the worst hernea in five counties.

I’ve been in my bed playing video games on a PC Jr. That’s the last time I had a boner. My chumpsteak is still gasping for air.

I can feel the fan on my bald spot. I’m punching gravel every morning now. I was waking up at five thirty before my accident doing knuckle push ups and swimming laps. I’m practicing my one inch punch laying down.

I have big plans once I get out of my bed.

When I woke up in the morning, she was still exhausted. For good reason! There wasn't shit on cable so yep, in went the Heavy Metal Parking Lot. Judas Priest Turbo. I got so fired up I played Whitesnake again and I don't need to tell you how powerful that shit is. Anyway, we both need to see a chiropractor now, but I think it was worth it.

"Don't eat them," said Artie "They're for my scatology class."

"So you're keeping that class, I thought the teacher was a dick?"

"He is, but I got a B on the midterm. He loved my gibbon shit story."

"When you were at the animal park?"

"No. When I lived in Santa Barbara my friend and I got stoned and snuck into Michael Jackson’s zoo. All the cages were opened so we went in with the gibbons and started eating their bananna oatmeal mash. I sparked up another doobie and the gibbons attacked my weed and climbed up to the top of the fake tree with it. They ate the snowcone and then started screaming. The groundskeeper ran out and sprayed them with water and they started shitting. There were shit sprays shooting everywhere. My buddy got a log dropped into his backpack. We tried to get out of there but the groundskeeper was still there. I started piling wood chips over myself to protect from the shit. Eventually the gibbons calmed down and the groundskeeper took off. We moved toward the exit but the gibbons blocked it. They puffed out their chests and jumped up and down with boners. I was sure they were gonna try to cornhole me so I dropped into a fetal position and stuffed a book down my pants. The big gibbon approached and I closed my eyes, but he ripped my backpack off and grabbed the bag of weed out and climbed up to the top of the cage again. Relieved, I stood up to take off but I noticed that he wasn’t smoking it yet. I pulled out my pocket bong and a lighter and threw them up to him. The other gibbons let us pass through the door and we got the fuk out of there. When we got back, my buddy’s backpack was filled to the brim with gibbon shit. He threw out the backpack, but I sure wish I had it for my scat collection. It probably would have guaranteed me an A. Or at least a B+.”

“Oh yeah. That story.”