I feel I should start this whole blogging thing off on the right foot by attacking the controversial and thought provoking topic of explosive flatulence.

I work at a vitamin retailer, selling placebo to gullible idiots who believe a pill made of corn husks will cure acne, reduce the girth of their fat asses or give them diamond-hard erections. Fucking morons.

Since my boss is a lazy asshole (with a pussy that reeks of rotting cuttlefish) I’m often there alone, without supervision. I use this time to meditate on life’s many failures, steal from the register to supplement my gnawing drug habit and, of course, blow a ceaseless explosion of gale force wind from my asshole.

I’m not sure what’s wrong with my digestive system, but every meal consumed produces a series of bowel rattling fulminations. After I’ve let an especially pungent fart escape into the general atmosphere of the vitamin store, a customer will, inevitably, wonder in.

Each time it’s the same. They’ll interrupt their own query about diet pills or methods to clean out their urine prior to a drug test. The customer will make a sour face and say something to the effect of “Boy, it sure smells like feces in here.”

I’ll stifle a laugh, blame a nonexistent, previous customer, and then politely direct them to an aisle of snake juice that best fills their imagined ailments.

I hate my fucking job.

No dissertation on the compelling topic of hot ass air is complete without a mention of my brother’s inspired “Fart Museum.” As I’ve mentioned, we have a rock band, my brother and I. The home studio is set up in his home, far off in the mountains of Tennessee.

For the next album (we’ve yet to release the first) he’s recorded a song called “The Fart Museum”, which he describes as the culmination of his life’s work. It’s roughly two minutes of him farting loudly into a microphone. He records these magical little entries every time he has a particularly large fart brewing in his intestines. It’s impressive because he has to switch the machine on and press ‘record’ before the fart gains premature release.

To add to the hilarity, he added stompbox effects to each fart, such as echo delay or reverb. Also, in post production, he included the sound of audience applause. I thought the whole thing was pretty gawd damn funny until I realized he was shitting into the same microphone I use to sing into.

If it gives you any indication of content, the Fart Museum is probably one of our LESS immature songs.

We aren’t exactly known for our sophistication or high mindedness.


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