It’s fitting to begin this tale by informing you that my desk used to be a bathroom. We all know that behind the desk is a bathroom, and I know for sure ‘cause I hear all of your squeezy, breezy pee-shakes and poos. Now, I’m a gassy girl and between the desk and the bathroom is a space I like to call the “stink zone.” I consume foods I know will make the shift a fart, shit, and shart-filled fest. Holding it in is seldom an option. I like farting more than I like pretending I don’t fart. Don’t call me anal. I’m a loose cannon.
One particular evening I felt a fart quite inspired. He was conjured of a lethal mix of cabbage, lima bean, and potato, and he was begging to be let free, a-knocking at my back door from the inside. There’s a reason a lady such as myself lifts her bum to release her fumes. I fear a fart, instead of exiting stage pants, will travel upcrack to a place called the Red Cave, otherwise known as my vagina. As a real phenomenon, it goes without saying I don’t want an assfart hanging out in my pussy. Bad vibes, there. On this chilly winter’s night at the Second Cup Training Centre, a little butt guy made the trek up to Puss Valley, and this is what happened.
Fart Guy is met at the opening of the cave by the gatekeeper, a flippity-floppity talks-with-his-hands labia named Tough.
“Nah-nah-nah, where do you think you’re going, pal?” Tough’s tough.
“I was just hoping to get warm—” started the conniving little fart.
“We don’t let riffraff like you stink up joints like this. Take a hike before I eject you myself!”
“C’mon man,” farty-boy pleads, “you and I both know this club’s not exclusive.”
“For you it is, now scram!”
“Yeah, well, this place is old news anyway. It’s seen better days, dontcha think?”
“I ain’t saying nothin’.”
“Listen,” the vapour of anus tries, “I could spruce up this puss, build up a buzz, you know, event planning, promotions. You should see what I done next door! Tons of action!”
“I don’t wanna know.”
“I could be the breath of fresh air that loosens up this hole. Don’t you yearn for those red carpet days when not just any ol’ dick, tongue, and silicone prick came through here? I can attract the business, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“It was an exciting time…” Tough’s going soft! “Okay fine, just don’t stain the carpets. We need this place looking pristine, kapeesh?”
And so, several renovations, relaunches and painful realizations later, my vagina became the party capital of the Second Cup Training Centre. At long last. And Fart Guy? Well, he threw himself off Pussy Cliff and made the “stink zone” what it is today: a place no one wants to be. The office smells and it’s all your fault, Fart Guy! You’ve made working here a pleasure just for me.
By: Andrea Werhun
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