All Things Holy
Here's a short story I wrote about a girl who can throw her farts. If you're hoping to get some laughs out of this, then please, hold your breath, because this is funny as shit. Hell, funny as sharts.
I can throw my farts.
You know, like people throw voices with their mouths. But instead I throw gas. With my asshole.
Ever lose yourself in the magic of a craft? It’s always been a calling for me, farting. Especially loudly. On or around other people. It’s a favorite activity of mine, second only to inserting the word “fart” in place of the word “heart” in famous songs and sayings.
My achy breaky fart. Kickstart my fart. Two of farts. (I need you. I need you.)
Of course, these two favorite gas-times of mine irritate everyone around me to no end. By middle school, I’d been kicked out of friend’s houses, birthday parties, Nordstrom Rack. And listen, I deserved it too. From the bottom of my broken fart, I’m a totally contemptible douche lord with virtually no grasp of immediate consequence. I love spoiling precious moments with a well-timed toot and I care little for the comfort of others. Especially my little brother, who, by lack of luck in birth, has become a prime target for my blasts. Growing up, there was nothing more thrilling than to hear his screams as I pinned down his arms, hiked up my dress, and blew ass right into his stupid face.
But while I enjoyed the attention that came with farting loudly and noxiously during the stray lecture or funeral services of my youth, I realized in order to continue being employable, or at the very least, able to enter the Nordstrom premises, there had to be a better way. I was determined: My fart would go on.
One day after school, while I was watching a ventriloquist on TV, my mom’s bitchy cat Figaro was sitting on the foot of my bed and a big one was coming. Rolling down my guts. Loading into the barrel. My little brother was on the floor playing with his Gameboy, sucking on the collar of his t-shirt. And as I gave a good push, expecting the usual grotesque yet wholesome windblast, something magical happened. Usually, I just startled Figaro off the bed and made my brother gag. But Figaro, this time, he didn’t look at me. He looked at my brother. And my brother looked up, startled. Had that sound come from him?
Instinctually, I crinkled my nose, pointed, and said: “You farted! You farted!”
“I didn’t! I didn’t!” he cried.
But he knew it. I knew it. He’d never be able to prove it. All signs pointed to him. From the perspective of any feline observer and our Lord God, he fucking farted.
And it was the most powerful I’d ever felt. The most sophisticated way to break wind known to man. I’d discovered a new fart-form, if you will. And I knew with great power would come great responsibility. Wasn’t sure if I could handle it, but I also couldn’t resist.
The fart wants what it wants.
So I went to the library and checked out every book they had on ventriloquism and illusion. Now, I’m not going to tell you exactly how I do what I do. (A magician never reveals her secrets.) But basically I learned how you can squeeze and shift your voice to make it sound distant. How you can alter the tone with three main lip positions: relaxed, open, and my personal favorite–the smile. These auditory tricks? I ate ‘em all up and directed ‘em right at my shit-shoot.
During the days, books splayed across the kitchen table of my childhood home, I’d practice with my mouth so as not to arouse suspicion. But by the cover of night, magic happened. With my brother as an unwilling assistant, I did what master illusionists call a misdirect, looking toward the desired location of the thrown fart so witnesses never suspect its true source.
I’d make it so farts were coming out of every corner of the bedroom, every drawer, behind the curtains, even under the bed. Did you know you can alter a fart so the fart-personality matches the profile of the victim you intend to ruin? Fart-personality, you say? Of course. Every fart has its own identity. You’ve got the depressed grumble types, common quacks, total squeakers. And who can forget the question mark farter? Brrrrrrrrurt? Classic insecure types.
Holding a flashlight to my face, I’d convince my brother the bedroom was haunted by a bitter old man who died of a fart attack. When he went to my parents for help with the ghost, they’d just tell him that he’d grow out of his fart phase, just like his more mature older sister had. Or so they thought.
See, it had been so long since a fart had been traced back to me that they no longer thought I was ever the culprit. My parents, Figaro, and my little brother had heard and smelled so many of my farts they were practically connoisseurs of my brand. Yet if they could be fooled, I was clearly ready for the big time. Ready to take this show on the road.
A dream is a wish your fart makes.
When my teacher would give me a D, I’d make her rattle off a big one bending over during English. Oopsie daisy. If I wanted to steal a lipstick, I’d throw a fart behind the clerk. Badda bing badda boom! Red Harlot looks good on you. Years later I’d get jury duty and become a kind of court room terrorist. They couldn’t get through the trial without the court reporter typing “fart noise” multiple times in the official transcript. I even unleashed a fart so strong the judge commanded a recess due to toxic fumes. Just call me the Queen of Farts.
Of course, I’m talented. But not immortal. There are obstacles. There’s always the risk that someone could move in front of you, destroy your misdirect. A total eclipse of the fart. And then try to pin it on you.
Ever smell a fart and suddenly become a detective? Lick a finger, hold it up to the breeze like, “Well, the wind is coming from the East, but the scent surely rippled in from the Southwest…” Okay, Sherlock. I’m the hero of this story. The one with power of mind and ability.
You see, I found a way to squeeze my asshole just right so that the smell, if it is in fact a stinker, can be deployed in a way that devastates an entire room. Trying to pinpoint the source is fruitless. And not to brag, but I know exactly which food combinations to consume to flood a space. I experimented with a lot of fart recipes. Dried apricots and cabbage. Tacos and asparagus. Spray cheese and hot wings. But my most famous concoction, my signature, my brand, has to be Beans, Broccoli, Burger King. B-b-b-biohazard. Could offend a dog who’d been nose-deep in a rotting corpse, it’s so striking.
When my brother eventually got a fiancé, fucking Jenny, whose vocabulary almost solely consisted of phrases like, “Your sister is really weird,” and “I can’t believe they don’t have free WiFi here,” I made sure to inflict my wrath upon her in small ways over the years. A toot here, a shart there. Never quite what she deserved but enough to keep her in line. Any boyfriends I managed to get ended up peace-ing out from the sheer humiliation of believing they’d blown ass in front of me constantly.
I’m perpetually single and ready to mingle. Owner of a lonely fart.
But falling in love with a person was never as important to me as my love of the craft. It was because of this dedication that my talents were unmatched by anyone else I’d ever encountered. I knew what I was capable of. And I knew a day would come where I would even challenge myself.
And then that moment finally did come. The moment a girl dreams about and plans for since she’s small.
My little brother’s wedding.
I’d practiced for weeks leading up to this day. Squats at the gym. Rectal flexes. Butt plugs. Kegel balls in the bum-bum. Since everyone thinks I’ve been out of the fart game since childhood, they never suspect my plans as I stand there in my bridesmaid’s dress, off to the left of my brother and Jenny. Both in the classic black tux and white gown get-up. So beautiful. So innocent in their love. It’s enough to pull at my fart-strings. But it doesn’t change my mind. It may be my brother’s wedding day, but I’ll be what takes his wife’s breath away.
“Do you take Jennifer,” says the vicar, “to be your lawfully wedded wife…”
I turn from the crowd briefly, reaching into my handbag which holds but one thing–a half-eaten burger. The third ingredient in my signature scent.
“To have and to hold from this day forward,” the vicar continues, “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer…”
I chow down on the last of the flame-grilled beef patty, back hunched, teeth gnashing, eyes glowing. A gargoyle in green chiffon.
“In sickness and health,” the vicar says, “as long as you both shall live?”
Wiping a smidge of mustard from the corner of my mouth, I turn to face the pews. Back straight. My gaze on Jenny.
“I do,” she says.
And as Little Bro leans in to kiss the bride, I stretch my asshole into a shit-eating grin, suck in a deep breath and… release a whopper.
It’s brilliant. The fart.
So perfectly modulated to match Jenny’s dainty anus. A soft fart. A sweet fart. A tweet fart. It sounds far away. Almost a queef, it’s so polite. And it’s so long in duration! A symphony of sound! Moonlight Sonata! Ave Maria! Michael Jackon’’s Thriller!
My masterpiece! My genius!
Am I a modern day Da Vinci? My asshole in a Mona Lisa smile? Or perhaps a Monet? The smells and sounds draw visions of shapes, colors. An experience akin to Water Lilies. Devastating in its impact. Irrevocable.
Jenny’s face contorts into a magnificent look of horror. I might as well be skewering puppies with hot pokers in front of her. My brother appears frozen solid at the sheer magnitude of my brand. Aunts, uncles, second cousins, toddlers are nearly knocked back from the blast as they cover their mouths and choke back vomit.
My focus, though, stays locked on Jenny, as does the focus of all the guests, even in the midst of their dry heaves. It’s the classic misdirect. My hand covering my face. My expression posing the question: How could she? And on her wedding day? Jenny’s nose is crinkled and she looks around, terrified, hoping to accuse. But the eyes, they’re all on her. You can already tell, it’s the age old verdict: she who smelt it dealt it.
Fart-breaker. Dream-maker. Love-taker. Don’t you mess around with me. No, no, no.
I know. I shouldn’t be so cocky. I mean, even with my level of experience I can’t believe I’m getting away with it. I know I need to end it. This is the longest note I’ve ever held. I’m living on borrowed time. But damn, is this a slam dunk and I want to hang out on the rim…
And that’s when my fart skips a beat.
My anus falters for only a moment. But it’s enough to change the tone. Like a zipline the fart rushes from Jenny’s bottom across the airwaves to where I stand, the sound no longer a delightful sweet symphony but a sharp rip. Followed by an intense burning in my crack. A tear in Mona Lisa’s smile.
From the front row, Grandma gingerly places her hand to her chest and gasps in my direction. The crowd has turned on me. And apparently so has mine own asshole! Et tu, Brute? And it doesn’t stop there.
Uncontrollable diarrhea now. Pooling hot down my legs, splashing onto my high heels. All this in front of a giant cross at the front of the church. And the shit is so hot, I’m sure it has to be spewing, nay, billowing steam underneath the chiffon. If the temperature were 20 degrees colder this would have been like an 80s music video.
My brother lunges at me and I rush into the nearest confession booth and slam the door shut. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been no time at all since my last social transgression, and I’ve literally just shit all over the most important performance of my life. Outside the booth, I hear Jenny scream-sobbing, my brother banging on the door telling me to go fuck myself, and my mother over a microphone saying, “The reception is starting in the East dining room.”
I look down at my hands as my dreams slip through my quivering fingers and liquidated shit slips out of my stretched anus. I ask aloud how it could all have gone so wrong?! Why had I been bestowed such a gift, only to have it taken away? Was it ever truly mine to begin with? I start rambling to myself, doubting the meaning of everything. What if a life’s passion is just like that creepy guy who got your number at that bar? Sure, he may call, but will answering that call lead to butt stuff you can’t handle and a blown-out O-ring? Is it worth it?
And then comes a voice from the other side of the booth. The vicar, who had apparently snuck in and listened to me bear my soul in anguish, speaks through the wall to me. God works in mysterious ways, he told me. And it’s in taking great risks that we learn the fart of suffering. While I may not have succeeded in executing my masterpiece, he says, I really did ruin that wedding.
And it’s in this moment of holy solace that both my mouth and my butt smile.
Fucking worth it, baby.