E R N I E ' S H O U S E O F W H O O P A S S
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It was a sunny Sunday in south Georgia. The kind of day that normal people would be outside enjoying the Spring weather, however, this story is not about normal people. This particular Sunday was like almost every Sunday for my roommate Matt, our friend Mike, and myself.
credit given to original author if known
It was the aftermath of a Saturday night power drinking fest with the usual drinking games (asshole, three man, quarters, etc...). These Saturday nights involved the consumpsion of unnatural amounts of alcohol to which we take much pride in. Beer, Jagermiester, Canadian Mist, and Tequlia being the most common ammunition, the sun would usually rear it's ugly head before we would retire into our comas.
With this information, you can get a general idea of the aura in the living room on this splendid Sunday. As we sit and watch the NASCAR race from our various perches, drinking beer for breakfast (hair of the dog), and eating Chinese takee outee, we had no idea that our coveted hangover was about to take a delightful turn. With absolutely no warning, a three-way game of "fart tag" erupts.
Now, let me explain. "Fart tag" is a game in which one person releases an audible or odor detectable air biscuit and then must release two more before someone else can retaliate. If anyone retaliates, it adds one fart to the total. You must have three unanswered farts to win. To win three times in a row is to be dubbed "fart tag champion". Also, we like to make the game more entertaining by posing during the farting process. For example, standing on chairs or other furniture, or contorting ones body into a position as to make the fart erupt with more force. The latter of the two can be quite dangerous as you will shortly learn.
With the room now smelling like a backed up septic tank and the three of us looking like we're about to rob a stagecoach (Shirts pulled up over noses), Matt not only holds a two fart lead, but he is also sitting in my chair, which is a big no no in my apartment unless I give consent. Not so in this case. Did I mention that Gordon just hit the wall? I'm now desperate and pissed off which turns out to be a deadly combination. In an attempt to gain one fart on Matt and retrieve my perch at the same time, I carefully sneak up behind Matt and proceed to pose.
I use the pattented Ballerina pose. This involves grabbing the left ankle with one or both hands and pulling the leg as far over the head as possible and giving the appearance of a ballerina doing a warm up stretch, just not as graceful and no camel toe to admire. With this picture in mind, my asshole is now about two inches from Matt's left ear. I proceed to give it all I've got. With no warning for Matt, his hair is suddenly parted by what could only be described as the trumpet of death.
It started out with the potential of being one the finest farts I have ever released. It was loud. It was lengthy, and it was inches away from fuck head's face. However, in my hastey anger, I had forgotten about the self inflicted abuse from the night before, to which I was quickly reminded by the explosion in my shorts.
I don't think I've ever seen a white boy run as fast as Matt did while vacating my perch. My designer briefs are now spackled with what could only be compared to Texas chili, and that lovely aroma of fresh beer shit is starting to permiate through my clothes. You know, it smells kind of like baby shit, but with a slight hint of sulfer.
Needless to say, fart tag was temporarily postponed while I did the "oops I shit my pants" waddle to the bathroom, praying the whole way that none would escape the elastic and run down my legs. Now the time has come to assess the damage. Down come the jeans, and ever so carefully the underwear, and there it is..... I didn't know whether to laugh or cry as I scooped spoon after spoonful of Miller Lite chili into the the toilet and proceeded to rinse my shorts in the sink.
After a nice hot shower and a change of clothes, I reemerged into the living room which was still held hostage by maniacal laughter, to which I must admit, I had to join in. There comes a time when a man must learn to laugh at himself.
The week to follow would prove to be quite embarrasing. By Wednesday, everyone I knew had been informed of my BVD blowout, and one of them even refered to it as "projectile farting". None the less, I sucked it up and let everyone have a good laugh, and to my suprise, I was rewarded ten fold.
The very next Sunday, we are all in the exact same situation. Hangover, hair of the dog, greasy lunch, NASCAR, and God forbid, fart tag. Matt, whom I usually refer to as Mattfag, is sitting at the computer, chatting with someone. Most likely some perverted guy pretending to be a hot young chick. Just right for Mattfag. Mike, whom we usually refer to as "Ofer", because he is 0 for 10 with the last ten woman he's hit on, decides that it is time to part Matt's hair again.
This of course gains my interest and I watch blissfully as Mike backs up behind Matt's head and proceeds to enter the "bent over titty dancer"pose. You know the one. The one where she wiggles her twat and ass right in your face while holding her ankles, and in some places will actually let you insert the dollar into the slit....
Anyway, once again with no warning for Mattfag, and asshole inches from ear, Matt's hair is once again parted by a wave of toxic gas, and yes, once again that lovely noise rang out. That liquid and air squirting sound that can only be replicated by an almost empty shampoo bottle trying to cough up one last gob of goo.
That tale end of the fart that makes everyone in the room stop and stare and wait for the verdict. Did he blow out his S.A.S. (Shit Air Seperater), or did it just sound like it? He did. He did. He shit his fucking pants. Unbelievable!!!!!!!!!! Two Sundays in a row, Matt gets shit on. You would think Mike would have learned from the previous week, but no....
Well this time I got to be on the laughing end and Mike didn't get to take a shower because the big, dumb rhino doesn't live there, however, he did get the last laugh because after he left, we found that he was kind enough to leave his soiled boxers in Matt's bathroom. I let Matt do the honors of removing them complete with one hand pinching nose and the tips of one finger and a thumb carrying the boxers as far away from the body as possible, leaving the occasional drip on the tile hallway floor.
For this too, Matt got the honors. We don't play fart tag anymore.