Fart Musings
   Ah, flatulence.  Where would I be without you?  Whenever there was a rainy day, you were there.  Whenever our team lost the big game, you were there.  A true friend like you is hard to come by.
   Is there anything funnier than a loud, brapp-a-brapp fart?  I think not.  I could be attending a triple funeral for my mom, my dad, and my hound dog Luigi, and still be tickled silly by someone ricocheting one off the pew.  Bonus points if it's clergy.  You ever notice how wooden or hard plastic seats amplify the noise?  Like when you were in school, you'd let one out slowly, then you'd get impatient and just give it a little push—a little too much of a push—and you'd blow the shirt off the guy behind you.  But you wouldn't move, as if you hadn't just violated everyone in the room, as well as those connected to you via the air conditioning system. 
   “It wasn't me!  Must have been you!  Damn, dude.  Nasty stuff.”
   I wonder about farts a lot.  Maybe a bit too much.  For example, can you catch a fart?  Could you fart into a jar and hermetically seal it up, then open it like a year later and still smell it?  Would it disappear?  Would the methane molecules lose their punch?  Would they increase their funk?  Now there's a science experiment for you kids.  Fuck egg parachutes.
   What makes farts so great is that they'll always be funny.  Now, for me, it's on a different level.  When I was a kid, they were funny because they sounded funny.  That's about it.  But now they're a source of irreverence, and they still sound funny.  There are few things in this world as humorous as an old man blasting one.  It's inappropriate and therefore hilarious.  The older the better.  If you're on your deathbed with tubes stuffed in every orifice and flowers and cards everywhere, let one off.  Break the machines.  But have someone call me before you do it.
   I can't wait to get old so I can enjoy farts on the highest plane imaginable.  Well, that's my theory of the fart-comicality correlation; take it or leave it.