[amelveEnromma]

Men fart too

much. They do it a lot. They laugh and joke about it and even admit with great pride their best accomplishment. I am

confident tonight in my slumbering sleep that the silence of the dark forest will be broken by the thundering roar

of the men’ evening dinner.
The dawn harkens the call of anal artillery. Each pungent bouquet is accompanied

by a booming report. And when the rectal siren’s song ceases to echo of the distant canyon walls, the evidence

remains in the men’s gravy stained shorts. As my eyes water from the acrid clouds of digestive emissions, I

find that I am filled with envy. The thought of sharing in the majestic poot pageantry makes my rectum tingle with

delight.
As the sun rises, I slowly feel the tingling sensation of my sphincter screaming for a joyous bowel

movement. Knowing the brewing long can be mined for methane, I see my opportunity to freshen the air.
The pleasant,

painful pressure wells within my gut. I see in the faint distance the cedar sided shack, and as life often does, I

am faced with a crossword decision. My alimentary earnestness beckons me. Shall I deposit a corn studded butt bone

in that fly infested hole of fuming human compost? Or shall I retain possession until such time as I can spray foul

air in a glorious reverberation of the pine boards on which I sit.
My decision becomes crystal clear as one of the

men lifts his left cheek and carves off a generous slice of roast booty beef. Manhood is just around the corner. I

summon my great reserve of abdominal energy and push out my bunger like there is no tomorrow.
My straining is

instantly rewarded. A large bubble of intestinal gas blows its way through my southerly canal. As it exists, an

ensuing vacuum pulls my buttocks back together with a deafening clap.
As the men in the camp, their ears ringing,

look around for the agent of their sensory discomfort, I can only try to hide my shame in filling my pants with

syrupy warmth. But shame gives way to pride, for I can see in the nodding, approving glances of the others that I

have become a man.

[glasscollector]

Hilarious! And very well

written...

My rite of passage came around the time of Jr High School, and our locker room was the crucible of

fire for any boy who hoped to scrabble up the fart chain to become champion.

Our reigning hero had, among other

talents, the ability to rip-on-demand. He could run faster, bench press more cheerleaders and had such sublime

sense of timing that each expiatory report elicited a specifically desired range of response.

The rest of us were

left to merely embarrass ourselves. I did manage to raise my standing once purely by accident when, during a pause

in a particularly boring lecture, I loosed a prize-winning cattle call. Even my girlfriend laughed, and I was the

talk of the hallways between periods.

Glory Days...