The wrong hole???

I only wish I could take credit for this brilliant video. How Scott Baio got involved, I can't fathom, but this is much more decent than Dustin Diamond (Screech from Saved By the Bell) making a porn and finishing up with a Dirty Sanchez...

Super Cock: In my mouth, out my ass

Many moons ago, Howard Stern hosted a bogus game show while at WNBC, modeled after Match Game. The first match: "blank... willow." Robin, playing Brett Somers, answered: "The only thing on my mind, Gene: PUSSY!"

The next match: "Blank... a doodle doo." Jackie answered: "I have cock, and I wrote it big. I have big cock." Jackie was told that having "big cock" coming out of his mouth sounded dirty and couldn't be said on the radio. Jackie's retort, loud and clear over the airwaves: "So I can't say big cock, but you can say big cock coming out of my mouth?"

Flash-forward to this evening. A local wing place, Buffalo Wings and Beer, has some creative names for its wings, starting with Hen and working up to Cock, Super Cock, and Insane Cock. As I sat down to eat my hot plate of Super Cock, that ridiculous Stern skit popped into my head. I quipped to my wife: "Look - I'm putting Super Cock in my mouth!" That pretty much ruined any possibility of romance this evening.

But just in case there was still a glimmer of hope, I turned to her just a few minutes ago, ripped out a burner that brought tears to her eyes, and said "See? Now I have Super Cock coming out of my ass!"

She's not talking to me anymore.

My fart worked a full day

It's been a while since I last blogged, but I assure you it's not because of a lack of flatulance. On the contrary: my recent output has been abnormally high, and its Disturbance Factor has been off the charts (much to my family's chagrin).

This morning had to be the worst of what I consider my most vile week of 2009. I woke myself up by turning over while still under the sheets, causing the previous night's buildup to rush past me as it escaped the confines of my bed.

Then it was on to a shower, where I repeatedly confirmed that farts travel phenomenally fast upstream, somehow riding along the hot jets of water and right into my face.

The worst, of course, was yet to come. I was standing in the walk-in closet, uninhibited by any restrictive clothing, hunting for a clean pair of pants. As always, the air was still, as there is nearly zero airflow in there. A sudden pressure buildup led to a multi-blast flamethrower that unleashed what must have been the Devil himself. I realized, as I was nearly done (and giving it the ultimate prone-position final squeeze) that I needed to go. NOW.

I left the closet, shut the door, and headed to the throne to take care of this festering, rotting waste built up in my colon.

Fast-forward to 4pm. A family member trekked upstairs to the walk-in closet to fetch a roll of toilet paper. Upon entering, said family member gagged and nearly lost their lunch. My wife, upon hearing the plea for help, decided to inspect the closet, for fear of a dead mouse. However, upon opening the door and taking a sniff, she knew it wasn't a mouse. She recognized my scent immediately (which disgusted her). She then realized I hadn't been home for 8 hours (which disgusted her further).

Just like a loudspeaker's sound quality being affected by the acoustical qualities of a room, my fart quality was truly enhanced by the wonderfully still air of my closet. That, and the good fortune that nobody opened the closet door all day.

My wife recounted this story to me this evening. Maybe she was expecting me to be embarrassed, humbled, even apologetic. I can't be quite sure, because I was laughing until tears flowed out of my eyes, and couldn't really focus on anything.

So there it is, Constant Flatulator: my fart that worked an 8-hour day. It's a proud moment for me, though I wish I could have been there to see the fruits of my labor...

Fart with me tonight - 0100 UTC (9pm eastern)

Hello Constant Flatulators! Tonight I've decided to fart at exactly 9pm (that's 0100 UTC, for my globally gassy friends).

Please join in and fart with me. Who knows... maybe someone next to you will rip a good one right as you blast a trumpet solo. You can then give each other that secret nod that says, "yeah... I read the blog."

Please post a comment on here after you've ejected your quality methane.

Smell you at 9!

PS - I ate General Tso's Chicken with a beer chaser. It's busy fermenting in the Pits of Hell, building up some good pressure.

UPDATE: I managed to fire off a wet bubbler. I was alone at the time, so you'll have to trust that it was quite zesty! Next time I do this, I'll figure out how to make it more immersive - maybe I'll record an MP3...

Why Girls Don't Fart

Thanks to @farts_are_funny, I found this little gem. I only watched it 10 or 15 times, but after every viewing, I mumbled to myself: Could this really be true???

Flatulent Comments Fall Flat

Several people have contacted me, wondering why their comments are not showing up. While I do moderate the comments, I have not been seeing any come in lately.

Trying to diagnose this, I changed the comment entry form to be a pop-up instead of an embedded form. This seems to be working better.

If you've tried to leave a comment recently and it's not showing up, and you have the gumption to re-post for all of us Constant Flatulators to enjoy, I'd be super-appreciative! And, just to be sure things are ok, feel free to reply to me via twitter @constflatulence to let me know there's a comment sitting in SBD state, waiting to be detected by my olfactory receptors...

A measurable quantity

First, a disclaimer: This story is a slight deviation from my merry tales of gas-passing. Maybe it's a bit off-topic for this blog, but I find humor in it, so I'm writing about it. And no, I didn't poop in a box. This is a nice, wholesome, innocent tale.

Now on to my story. If you're in tune with your bodily functions, as I am, you can probably recognize when you're going to have an all-out colon-cleansing experience. For me, the most alarming sequence occurs in the morning, and it goes something like this:

• Wake up, stumble downstairs, grind fresh beans, brew a strong batch of French Press


• Down 2 cups of coffee while eating a bowl of Kashi (10g fiber / serving) and a fistful of blueberries


• Sit down at the computer and start working, waiting for the moment to hit.


• Clench butt cheeks at the onset of anal eruption, and waddle down the hall hoping not to sneeze.


• Drop onto the Ring of Salvation, and let gravity take over.

I think the important point is that, when I feel that explosion brewing, I usually don't have an early-warning system. It hits instantly, and I'm on the run.

Unlike mid-day poops, my morning one is like an avalanche. It's fast, it's furious, it's mass-quantity. About a month ago, after a rather violent episode, I looked down at what I was flushing away (don't be disgusted - you know you look too!), and thought "WHOA - How did that all come out of ME? That must weigh a TON!"

And that, Constant Flatulators, is when I decided to weigh my poop. Now don't get all ewwwwww on me here. Like I said up front: I didn't poop in a box. That would make me say ewwwwwww. I came up with a much more elegant solution: I would weigh myself on the scale before and after my morning dump run.

I went through this ritual several times over the past few weeks. Mostly, I was disappointed, barely registering a tick on the big dial of the Health-O-Meter. But this morning, I hit paydirt. Maybe it was too much coffee. Or possibly my over-consumption of bananas yesterday followed by a hearty dinner at Noodles and Company. But this morning, I dropped nearly two pounds in 5 minutes! Disturbing, true, but curiously fascinating at the same time...

I don't think I'll be weighing my BM's any more, as I'm pretty sure I've discovered my potential, and certainly satisfied my own curiosity. But now I wonder - has anyone else ever done this? And if not, how about trying it out and letting me know your results? I'm thinking SOMEONE out there can beat two pounds!

Guy farts are worse than girl farts

The poll results are in, showing the guys just edging out the girls for "worst farts." I realize this is not scientific proof, but I think I concur (although there are always exceptions to the rule).

As a thank-you to those who voted, here's a little video I found. This girl obviously thinks she can out-gas the boys...

HOT GIRL FARTS 20 TIMES - Watch more Funny Videos

Fart Poll: Whose Farts are the Worst???

So I thought I'd try out Blogger's polling widget, and see how that worked out - my first poll is a simple boys vs. girls. I know what you're thinking: Guys rule the fart world. However, before you jump to a speedy conclusion, consider this:

• Girl farts sometimes mix with the fumes from Yeast Canyon
• Girl farts are often held in longer, accumulating stronger toxicity
• Girl farts are more rare in public, so you might not even recognize one until you're knocked to the ground.

So go ahead and vote. The next poll will be much more entertaining!

Fart Challenge: Open Door Anonymous

Farts are funny. Hilarious! At least to me they are. Sometimes I think it's the sound. Other times, the smell. But most often it's other peoples' reactions when 1) the sound is heard and 2) when the smell is intoxicatingly breathed in. C'mon, you know this type of thing makes you laugh.

So today I want to reminisce about a great gas-passing experience that happened recently. And then I would like to offer up the challenge to you, Flatulent Reader, to re-create this event in your own home town (office, school, church, NASCAR event, whatever).

If you've been reading my other posts, you're already well aware that most of my inspiration happens while hanging out in public restrooms (something sounds so wrong about that). Well, at a particular client's office, the restrooms are located off a frequently-used hallway. There's an administrative office directly across the hall, and this serves as a gathering place for some of the female employees. Often, while standing at the urinal, I can hear their conversations drift in whenever someone enters or leaves the restroom. The door, being on a slow-close mechanism, allows for maybe 5-7 seconds of pure unadulterated sound passage.

Well: If I could hear them, surely they could hear me. Which gave me an idea, which caused me to start chuckling, which caused my pee-stream to pulse rhythmically into the urinal.

The idea was to let out one of my super-loud trumpet farts during the busiest time possible (around 12:30, just after lunch), when the bathroom was packed and the ladies were in their large lunchtime group outside the admin office. I set out specific goals for myself:

1. Provide enough volume to cause conversation to cease
2. Perform the act in a crowded environment to maintain anonymity
3. Bonus points: I get to hear their disgusted reaction

If you're an expert-level flatulator like myself, you can imagine the planning and precision required to pull off this operation with all three goals providing a satisfactory grade. And you'd be right. Several days passed, as I sought out the perfect moment (as well as having appropriate gas pressure at the right time). I had a few failed attempts, and a few surefire blasts that fell on deaf ears. I think that the urinal was too far from the door to create a loud-enough boom.

Finally, I struck paydirt and scored on all three goals. The moment was perfect. As I approached the mens' room, I saw maybe 5 ladies standing about, deeply focused on some shallow subject. As I entered the bathroom, I took note of two urinators and one stall-dweller. Rather than heading to the urinal, I went to the sink, which is only a few feet from the door.

I started the water running, and commenced an extended handwashing session. My post-lunch gas was gurgling, and I knew the moment was there. I puckered and waited until finally the door opened as someone entered the bathroom. I couldn't hold it any longer, and let fly with an odd-sounding POP followed by a semi-squeak aftershock. And...

1. The conversation outside the door went dead-silent, but only for maybe a second or two. Goal #1 - SUCCESS
2. There were still a few inhabitants in the bathroom, and I spent time afterward at the urinal. Goal #2 - SUCCESS
3. Right after the silence, one of the ladies did the expected "Good Lord!" It was the second lady's reaction that was more interesting: "Must be my HUSBAND in there!" And then laughter ensued. Goal #3 - PARTIAL SUCCESS (they weren't all grossed out - only the first lady).

I walked out a few minutes later, with them having no idea which of us male pigs created the mystical ass-blast.

So there's my open-door anonymous blast story. Now it's your turn: See if you can re-create (or better yet, out-do!) this fun little fart challenge!

Get off your Cellphone – I’m Voiding!

When I head to the bathroom, it's (usually) to purge my body of some foul smelling food byproduct. Sometimes this activity comes with free sound effects for all to enjoy. I never feel I'm being rude by farting loudly while standing at the urinal or generating mini-splashdowns in the bowl after a particularly spicy lunch.

I'm sure you share the same opinion: this is not a place to be reserved. After all, you're either whipping out an appendage or dropping trou' and venting your buttocks in a shared airspace..

So, what compels people talk on their cell phones while in the bathroom? Microphones are pretty sensitive and are bound to pick up all sorts of toots, blasts, splashes, groans, hocks, and any other sound I haven't yet imagined (or don’t wish to conjure up memories of).

And so it is with these thoughts in my head that I bring you into my life once again. A few nights ago, I was in the bathroom at a restaurant. A guy walks in while I'm at the urinal, and he's talking on his cell phone with some fancy Bluetooth thing on his ear. You'd think he could have waited outside for a bit to finish his call, maybe with a really creative line like “hey – let's talk later, I’m walking into the bathroom”? Noooo... Just walked right in while talking. And goes to the urinal next to me. So, I felt obligated to send a message to the person on the other end of this obviously life-critical discussion. I let fly with a loud, legato blast with a slightly wet ending (and I admit, shamelessly, that I arrived back at the hotel later to find that I had ever-so-slightly signed my underwear in Brown Dye #2).

If I were the one on the phone when this occurred (and trust me, I wouldn’t have been), I would have said my goodbye and hung up my damn phone. But no, not Mr. Chattenleak. He actually had the gall (or stupidity) to turn to me and say "Do you mind?" My first thought was to say something really cynical and four-letter-ish. Instead, I felt that another blast was the best way to convey my sentiment. Fortunately for me, my gas-passing skills are rather good, and I was able to conjure up another fantastic rip-on-demand, this time with a urine-splash ending. This resulted in the desired "I gotta go" response.

A few minutes later, I walked out of the bathroom a proud man, my head held high. I felt I had done my civic duty (haha – I said doody). I only wish I could have heard the poor soul's reaction on the other side of that ill-fated call.

What would you have done?

Wall Leaner Guy and the Nose Pick

In my daily travels to public restrooms, I see way too many people ignoring the sink, both for urinating and for washing. I forgive those who don't urinate there, but the handwashing part? Pretty nasty, considering you then grab the door handle to exit, leaving your cock's epithelial tissue (or maybe some fecal fingerprints) for all to share.

That said, what I saw the other day makes me shake my head in disbelief. This guy shows up at the urinal next to mine. I hear the zipper open, followed by a sigh that could only mean “relief has arrived.” He had a deep, almost pained breathing, like it was taking all his energy to piss. To add to the image in your mind: after (presumably) grabbing his cock and hanging it out, he raised his arm and propped his hand up against the tile wall, and bowed his head. Either he was checking himself out down there or he was really exhausted from going Number One.

What happened next was, um, repulsive? Wall Leaner Guy (my new nickname for him) lifts his head, peels his palm off the wall, moves his hand into position at nostril-level, and starts digging for gold. I thought the incredulous look on my face might have deterred him. But no, he forged ahead. I’m pretty sure he got his finger in up to the second knuckle. He twisted and curled his finger, obviously trying to claw out some well-shaped, slightly crusted fragment of mucous. He eventually succeeded, examining the fruits of his labor before flicking the now-rolled-up booger onto a nearby wall tile.

As he placed his palm back up against the tile, I turned toward my own tile wall, as I could not watch anymore. And I realize there were boogers clinging to the wall in front of me, as well as a few short hairs that could only have come from man-crotch.

You can probably imagine the conclusion I drew at this instant: Wall Leaner Guy is not alone in his strange fetish. And I’m sure you’ve already guessed the next thought I had: He just shoved unknown penis skin cells up his nose.

As I sit here retelling my eyewitness encounter, I’m left with more questions than answers. Did Wall Leaner Guy even realize he picked his nose, or was it an unconscious act? If he did realize it: did he also realize others before him may have done the same, possibly after grabbing their dick, balls, or pubes to free themselves from the sweaty confines of their underwear? And if he realized that, does he actually get off on the fact that he can secretly sniff a man’s junk, sniff it all the way into his lungs, walking around with foreign tubesteak skin buried deep within his body?

Lest you doubt the veracity of this story, just open your eyes next time you’re in the urinal and try counting the crusted boogers and curly hairs. And try not to gag.

Modesty behind the stall door

Ok, first post on the blog. Let's get right to it. Today, I question the need to be reserved when propped up on the porcelain in a public bathroom. It seems that, whenever I walk into a public restroom and there's someone in the stall, things get eerily quiet behind the door.

Not that I'm in there wanting to listen or anything - maybe I just want to piss and be gone. But - wild guess here - the guy is in there to knock off some dingleberries, not check his BlackBerry. So why is it that people pucker up when someone else enters? It's not like I'm gonna look under the door to see what shoes you're wearing, and then hunt you down later to ask what you ate the day before.

So this brings me to my most recent trip to the men's room. As I was opening the door, I heard a blast and some water-spalshing. As soon as my footsteps echoed, the sounds stopped. I walked up to the urinal, started the flow, and then let loose with some great gas, with a terrific horn-section sound that can only be achieved while urinating in the stand-up position. This, apparently, was like a wind-blown invite to the stall-dweller, that read something like "You're cordially invited to join the cacophony of colon-induced auditory immersion." Not two seconds after my rip, this guy let loose with both solids and gases (and maybe some liquids?) that I was truly in awe of. I'm convinced he needed to wipe from the outside-in, just to clean up the backsplash.

So, I urge you to do your part, and help those too timid to fly free: Break the ice (and wind), and help start the bathroom conversation.