Subject: First Hand Account of Blast in Ferd's Pants

Date: 02 Feb 1999 00:00:00 GMT

From: skunkers@bossdog.com (the schmoo)

Reply-To: -----------------------------------

Organization: -----------------------------------

Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free

 

true story. But ferd's not his real name.

 

 

At about 2pm some day last week, I was at the workbench soldering some

jumpers for track lighting. There was a huge

SKRRRRRAAAAKKKK....brok...burkk....BARK...PFFFFFF...prruppupuPRUPpupupPUPupupPPRTT

......SKREEEEEEEeeeeeeee...bip!, then almost simultaneously, a

would-have-been-deafening-if-it-had-been-lots-louder

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA......That's what I like about the SOUTH!!!"... from

the other end of a person barely ten feet away. The other folks, up

till then pretending to busy themselves on productive things,

immediately bellowed "ASSHOLE" and "DICKHEAD" etc., and made for the

space outside of doors. Now these aren't some fart-sensitive prima

donna librarian types - these are blue-collar Georgia boys, familiar

with the explosive after effects of the local cuisine, that can give

and take the blasts of ass gas about as well as any bunch of losers

you are apt to find ANYWHERE. And well, even a WAY above average

boiled egg-and-beer butt blast doesn't send them scurrying for the

door on a cruelly mildly chilly day. But this was gas in class by

itself.

 

It was as if God himself had stuck his ass in the window, gave us the

cheezus of JEEZUS, and followed it up with the Holy Gloats.

 

Everyone but Ferd was confined to the fresh air for at least five

minutes, while Ferd flicked his bic repeatedly to keep from

ASS-fixiating his own self, as each semi-hysterical self-contented

chortle was causing him to inhale more of his own spew than he cared

to. Being a curious sort, my first thoughts upon reaching safety

concerned whether or not such a phenomenal trumpeting could have

occurred without solid fallout. Guess I wasn't the only one. As I

heard rumblings and mumblings from the other exiles like "Hey, you

need to be hosed off, you puke?" and "that hadda be a splatter job,

right?" etc.

 

Sorta sadly, I can't truthfully say that as I contemplated siezing the

opportunity to jump in my car and head up to the newly wog-manned

convenience store for a pack of smokes, that the silly little gasbag

managed to touch off his methane cloud with his bic, igniting his

idiotic meatloaf-with-shaved-sidewalls hairdo, and slinging him

violently into a stack of five gallon gans of solvent grade contact

cement, which subsequently went off like mortars, engulfing him in a

terryifying conflagration, which reduced my messy outhouse of a

woodshop - with ten-story fingers of yellow flame and sun-blotting

stinky black clouds - to a hefty insurance check, which forced me to

resign myself to a life of doodling and complaining about the

government full time.

 

At this time, there are reports of not one single fatality, and only

four seriously annoyed. The entire afternoon shift eventually made

their way back in and began pretending to get some work done, but

remained skittishly prepared to evacuate at any sign of evacuation,

which thankfully never came.

 

If it does again, candle lightings would be appreciated. But you'll

have to come here for them to do any good. You can keep your thoughts

and your prayers.