I dunno how I got there, but a few weeks ago, I ended up on a gadgets for sale website, on the page where one can buy the new and perfected “Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2,” also known as the “Boom Box Blaster”, for around 20 bucks. I ordered one straight away.
This past week, the fart machine arrived, and I have been having a ball with it. It uses a 9v battery, in the machine itself, and the remote control is about the size of a key fob. I tore the machine from it’s plastic packaging when it arrived, and got it working. Next, I went to place it somewhere near my perfect and sometimes proper wife Marie, who is mostly not known for a love of bathroom humour. After cleverly and slyly placing it near her butt, I stepped to the other side of the room, remote control in my pocket, and began to play the neverending plethora of amazingly realistic and varied loud fart sounds, as she sat, eyes closed, in, shall we say, utter amazement. Some minutes later, as I continued to use all my energy in an effort to keep from splitting a gut, as it were, Marie remarked, eyes still closed, in an understated sort of way, ‘You’d think a wife would have the right to expect that, at some point, her husband would grow up”. Which of course, only made me laugh all the harder.
A bit later, two of Marie’s filmmaking associates rang the bell. Tony and Peter are in their 20s, an upbeat duo. As Marie prepared lunch, I introduced them to the fart machine, by placing it on the table on our deck, among the Doritos and guac. There I demonstrated the fart machine’s repertoire, and before long, oh, say, 4 or 5 farts into the demo, I thought I might have to take them both to Emergency. I was right behind them, tears rolling off all our cheeks. As I entered the kitchen, I caught Marie’s eye, and although it is nearly impossible to not laugh when those around you are in hysterics, drooling, and expelling a suitable beverage out their nose, she had remained calm.
I tell Marie, in my most sadistic moments, that I am going to put the fart machine in my back pocket, and use it relentlessly at say, the bank or the grocery store, when we are there together. Or that I might need to bring something to her at her work this week, where she holds a most responsible and respectable position, packin’ my new toy. I promise her that, after I have furtively blared out a few tear-ass creepers from the rear pocket of my shorts, I will act as though nothing is wrong, by looking directly and stoicly into the eyes of my various victims, and announcing, in my most assertive and challenging voice, “whut?”. She remains unamused.
Click here to see The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No.2.
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