Let me state first that farting or "passing gas" is a natural occurrence and should at no point reflect on the person releasing such emissions, no matter how stinky they are. The grade to be given to the following subject is due to an assortment of reasons and the monicker given to him is just that: a name used to refer to the subject.
Do you remember the alphabet? I sure do. But Farty Guy does not. He walks into a record store and asks for the "rhythm and blues" section. After being directed to the section, Farty Guy then asks where Starpoint is. When shown where it is, Farty Guy stares at the section and then asks where Cherelle is. Farty Guy is always asking after looking for only 2 seconds. Is he actually looking then? After he asks, he continues to look. What is the point then? Farty Guy does not know. He would probably also ask this question. If he was someone smarter than Farty Guy.
Farty Guy then brings his objects to the counter to be purchased, and while talking, he farts. The smell is an explosion of wrong. It is the frowns of eleven small D-average school children. It is a flower wilting in a velvet painting in a thrift store. It is perhaps, the most unhappy smell ever. Farty Guy dwells in the realm of the smell for a while before exiting the store. Upon opening the door to leave, however, he takes a look behind him and says in the best confused voice he can muster, "What the?" as if the idea of using his nose had just come to him. As if the fart had crawled forth from some dark unknown recess of his body beyond time and his own notice, hovered for a while, watching the transaction with a bemused expression on its face before tapping him on the shoulder and saying, matter-of-factly, "you farted. shhhh..."
Thanks Farty Guy, for leaving your indelible stamp in here and requiring that we prop the door open with a wooden stick.
Grade: D+
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment