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...