Picture it: Charlotte, North Carolina. The year was 2002. The month was February. A carefree young lad filled with the promise of a new day took in a deep breath of the late afternoon air before entering the cozy confines of 176 Berry Blossom Drive. He pauses momentarily to compose himself as he descends the shag carpeted stairs to the basement below -- for the three separate Wendy's chili bowls that he ingested in anticipation of what was to follow were attempting to crash the party in a most premature fashion. This was no common get-together. Indeed, this -- this was Fart Fest 2002. An event steeped in tradition and with all of the pomp and circumstance that such an event could inspire. Fart Fest 2002 was to be the crowning jewel of our freshman year.
After a quick review of the scoring key and the rules (nothing but water permitted on the premises; knees could only be brought to chest level; no hand-wafting gestures disguised as cramps, etc.), the event was officially sanctioned, and the festivities began. Almost immediately, the room was beset with the sight of young men contorting their bodies in positions previously thought unimaginable to the inexperienced viewer. The cacophony of sound brought forth from gaseous masses bursting forth from their lairs was a delight to behold.
The young lad was impervious to it all as he strode to the center of the room, exhibiting the quiet confidence that had long since earned him the title of The White Shadow. The room fell silent in anticipation. After squatting over a leather cushion and unleashing eight straight salvos of varying pitch that drew applause, the bushy-haired fellow decided to size up the competition. Basking in the aroma of the sweet scent of arrogance, the young man stood with his arms crossed in a gesture designed to mock and intimidate his competition.
Then, just as everything was moving according to plan, it happened: a thunderous bellow was released, sending reverberations everywhere. The entire room shook. Pictures fell from their frames, cracks formed in the foundation, window panes buckled and nearly shattered as the crowd parted so that the party responsible could lay claim to his prize.
This called for drastic measures. His title slipping away before his bloodshot, tearing eyes, the young man summoned all of the gas that he could muster. He became one with the methane. He assumed the trusty reverse squat position that had never failed him before. Known for quick multiple releases compounded by a noxious aroma, the young man didn't disappoint as he let off six straight heart-stopping explosions.
But it was the extra push put into number six that would make this a day not to be forgotten.
You see, there is a fine line between allowing a turd to penetrate the rectum and protrude and peek out from the anal cavity in order to enhance the odor, and making a rookie mistake and allowing the turd to break free and puncture the surface. The true error in judgment occurs when one acts so hastily as to forget the cardinal rule of any reemergence of chili: that chili will undoubtedly make its glorious return in the same form from whence it entered into one's stomach.
Whether it was a momentary lapse in judgment brought on from the intense pressure of the situation -- or if it was a result of the dreaded Kerpage effect (something that we need not address here) -- the sad truth is that number six resulted in a pile of molten excrement being deposited into the young man's draws.
Fortunately, the young man happened to be sporting a fresh pair of Fruit of the Loom tightie-whities that embraced the excrement like a basket. Paralyzed with fear, the young man remained hunched as he took in the applause and the hearty slaps on his shoulders from the throng that had gathered. While the mere decibel level of his effort would have garnered him the title outright, it was the resulting scent of his deposit that transformed the moment into that of legend.
Knowing full well that he would be excused for breaking the cardinal rule of the Fart Fest if he did not do otherwise, the young man bit down into his bottom lip in a feigned smile and cracked his back into the upright position. The warm sensation of a fresh turd pie soothed his aching nerves -- but only momentarily, as the chafing quickly set in.
The next two minutes ticked away at an eternal pace as the young man was careful to avoid any sudden movements so as to prevent the waste from percolating down his leg, exposing him for the fraud that he was. Some quick thinking and a call to his father was his salvation.
It was a quiet ride home indeed, as the young man's father flashed an approving glance at his son. No words needed to be spoken -- for the man understood the sacrifice that his son had made.
I'm happy to report that this young man's legend remains undisturbed to this day, with the PoopReport community now being the only link to the truth that has eluded all who were present on that day of days.
-------------------- "Being deeply learned and skilled, being well trained and using well spoken words; this is good luck."
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