L: I recently explained to a student why he should poop when he feels the need instead of holding it in, and I explained life is like a conveyer belt. You have to keep the belt moving. Can’t block it up. If you let the package go. It will make you feel free.
T: Your poop conveyor belt metaphor makes me think of Amazon warehouses. In the way cash must flow, so does life and the air.
L: Farts are life. We quietly swallow air and then explode it back into the atmosphere from whence it came. The cycle continues.
T: Farts are the climaxes of the soul. They can be revolutionary.
L: Absolutely, like revving our engines at a red light. Farts are the power of the middle class. Hear us roar, sharting and protesting against white suburbia.
L (cont.): I’m more interested in how farts trickle down into the individual. Want to assert your superiority and alpha-ness? Walk into a library, and rip a loud, aggressive, powerful fart while looking at the librarian straight in the eye. No one will question your authority.
T: I find this concept to hold truth while dating as well. I can’t count the times I have established dominance by locking eye contact with somebody way more attractive than me, smiling, and then ripping a long, loud one, so loud people think I ripped my now brown jeans.
T (cont.): This, of course, makes me think of combustions damaging the space continuum outside the rectum, which becomes prime soil for time travel.
L: What if the fart is so powerful that not only does it rip open a portal into a new dimension, but blasts the innocent bystander into it?
T: I have a story for you.
To Be Continued in
"Missing in Action"
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