Just for Chris... a little flatulent humor

[Diamondback]

Sorry, like a bad fart I HAD to share this... blame CSADN for it.

This is a story about a couple who had been happily married for years. The only friction in their marriage was the husband's habit of farting loudly every morning when he awoke. The noise would wake his wife and the smell would make her gasp for air, and her eyes water. Every morning she would plead with him to stop ripping them off because it was making her sick. He told her he couldn't stop it and that it was perfectly natural. She told him to see a doctor, she was concerned that one day he would blow his guts out.

The years went by and he continued to rip them out. Then one thanksgiving morning as she was preparing the turkey for dinner and he was upstairs sound asleep, she looked at the innards, neck, gizzard, liver, and a malicious thought came to her. She took the bowl and went upstairs to her sleeping husband, and gently pulled the bed covers back, she pulled back the elastic waistband of his underpants and emptied the bowl of turkey guts into his shorts.

Some time later she heard her husband waken with his usual trumpeting which was followed by a blood curdling scream and the sound of frantic foot steps as he ran into the bath room. The wife could hardly control herself as she rolled on the floor laughing, tears in her eyes! After years of torture she reckoned she had got him back pretty good.

About twenty minutes later, her husband came downstairs in his bloodstained underpants with a look of horror on his face. She bit her lip as she asked him what was the matter. He said, 'honey you were right.' 'all these years you have warned me and i didn't listen to you…' 'what do you mean?' asked his wife. 'Well, you told me that one day i would end up farting my guts out, and today it finally happened. But by the grace of god, some Vaseline and two fingers. I think i got most of them back in.'

Keith and Eric, my apologies if this is out-of-bounds, and feel free to delete...

[Naharaht]

Not a joke to tell at mealtimes, please.:puke:

[Comte de Brueys]

...let's blame CSADN for it, again.

Bob came home drunk one night, slid into bed beside his sleeping wife, and fell into a deep slumber.

He awoke before the Pearly Gates, where St. Peter said, 'You died in your sleep, Bob...'

Bob was stunned. 'I'm dead? No, I can't be! I've got too much to live for. Send me back!'

St. Peter said, 'I'm sorry, but there's only one way you can go back, and that is as a chicken.
Bob was devastated, but begged St. Peter to send him to a farm near his home. The next thing he knew, he was covered with feathers, clucking, and pecking the ground.

A rooster strolled past. 'So, you're the new hen, huh? How's your first day here?'

'Not bad,' replied Bob the hen, 'but I have this strange feeling inside. Like I'm gonna explode!'

'You're ovulating,' explained the rooster. 'Don't tell me you've never laid an egg before? '

'Never,' said Bob.

'Well, just relax and let it happen,' says the rooster. 'It's no big deal.'

Bob did, and a few uncomfortable seconds later, out popped an egg!

Bob was overcome with emotion as he experienced motherhood.
He soon laid another egg -- his joy was overwhelming.

As he was about to lay his third egg, he felt a smack on the back of his head, and heard his wife yell...

"BOB, wake up. You **** the bed !"

[csadn]

[Matt Hooper] "I got that beat." [/Matt Hooper]

HOW TO MAKE A**HOLE STEW -- A TRUE STORY

Anyone who has ever been in an all-volunteer organization knows That Guy -- the one who shows up to events, but does as little work as possible; yet he still claims his share (and more) of the laurels and hardy handshakes. For those of us who actually do the work, That Guy is the bane of our existences. Once, That Guy got what was coming to him -- in spades.

The time was a 4th-of-July-weekend; the setting was a county fair facility in the Los Angeles Basin; the event was a chili cookoff. There was exactly one air-conditioner in the entire facility, and that in a house-trailer being used as an office. One need not guess where That Guy spent most of his time, appearing only to assign more tasks to already-overworked actual workers. About the time the fourth worker passed out from heat exhaustion, plans were laid to deal with That Guy.

The house-trailer had AC -- but it lacked plumbing; located next door was a portable toilet, "for staff use only". The third night saw a "bucket and chuck it brigade" filing from other, far-more-frequently-used privies to that particular unit, until it was absolutely brimming with the leavings of chili-cookoff aficionados. Inside the trailer slept That Guy; the rest of us were outside, dealing with heat, dust, ants, and Other Things. A guard-mount was set up 'round the "staff facility", and the huddles masses waited.

At about 7AM, right on schedule, That Guy opened the door of the trailer, and waddled (being, shall we say, not svelte -- but far larger than him were doing their fair share of work) into the privy... at which point, one of the Mob ghosted up to the door, padlocked it, and hung a sign off the handle reading "OUT OF ORDER".

That Guy did not immediately register what was happening -- but when he went to open the door, and discovered it was not going to be opening through any effort of his... well, one can imagine his reaction. One can also imagine his reaction when he noticed that vigorously pounding on the walls caused the privy to shake -- which caused a fluid reaction in the brim-full tank. Screaming availed him not, however; between the distance of the trailer from the festivities; the noise of the AC unit on the trailer, and the general surf-roar of the crowd, his wailings and gnashings of teeth passed unremarked.

It Got Worse -- as noted, this was July... in the Los Angeles basin... in the 1980s (does anyone else remember Smog Alerts?).

That Guy entered the privy at around 7AM -- the door was not unlocked until the privy-maintenance trucks arrived to carry off the units... at 930*P*M.

(Oral histories report that word of this did filter out to the cookoff contestants -- as did his malfeasance; the extent of negative reaction was a Vietnamese with a Suspicious Background who had arrived in the US in the late '70s, who said, "Man -- we *never* did anything *that* nasty!".)

When the padlock was finally removed, and the door opened, That Guy faceplanted into the dusty concrete -- he was shad-belly white, sucking wind like an iron lung, and his eyes could easily have been mistaken for badly-made omelets. Meanwhile, he finds himself in the position of the camera-PoV for the cover-art of the album _Straight Outta Compton_, only with a mixed-race contingent staring down at him, and no guns visible (note I said "visible"...). The facial expressions of the actual workers, however, were a *perfect* match.

That Guy did not volunteer for any more events. >:)