Over my years as a member of the American Work force I faced many challenges. Most of them I came upon while trying to deal with my fellow human beings, as the years came and went I developed a way of striking back at those that I felt had wronged me in the course of day.
Whether it was the tech in the service bay next to me that was always whining, or the rest of the crew on the production line that forced me to listen to the radio station that plays Wynnona Judd and Rascal Flats every ten minutes. Often it was the daily customer that knew more than I did because his brother took auto shop for two weeks in Community College, or even the fat bitch counter girl that forced me to type invoices because she was to busy stiring her fiber pills, I had to have satisfaction.
So I farted on them. I did it with pride and passion. I did it every day while on a diet of pepperoni pizza and heffenwiezen, BLTS and warm Pepsi, and steak fajita burritos washed down with Evan Williams and Dr. Pepper.
The best part was that I wasn't always alone. I often got into a competition with our lead tech to "crop dust" the shop crybaby. Every time I felt the fertilization of a foul stench deep within my colonic womb I would sneak up to his rack, let some silent miracle of nature go and ask him if he could come over and help me find my favorite pry bar. As he stood next to me, my joy soared with the reek of my offspring, and look of horror and pain on his face. It was to late for him, my partner in crime was standing a meter behind him, with his back turned while on his tip toes and let a loud one rip as crybaby turned around. The crybaby almost became violent as he realized that he was now at two ground zeros. This went on for a good week before crybaby tattled to management and I was sent home for a day for "malicious flatulence". It was worth it.
Customers required a little more ass tact. It was often best to appear behind their seat in the waiting room and wait for the PA to sound before I blasted them and quietly scooted over to the soda machine like nothing had happened. A quick look over my shoulder to see them gagging let me know that I was successful, though I had to be careful not to linger to long staring at the low cut shirt of the hot MILF at the table next to my prey. Some of them didn't deserve any tact. If you stand over my shoulder gawking at my every move, don't look surprised that I collapsed my colon in your face loud and proud because as you hovered over me like a perverted priest while I was bent over your engine compartment checking your brake fluid level. I don't care that you are furiously waving your hand under your nose in the epicenter of my intestinal earthquake.
Yes, I farted in you padded chair wench, I am farting more right now, now that you have sat down and my foot is wedged between the floor and the caster on you throne. No body is close enough to hear my butt trumpet, and I will be gone before the manager can hear your cries, or inhales the funk I made just for you. If you don't want me to punish you in a way that violates biological weapons treaties the world over, then don't shuck your duties. I am here to fix cars, not to file credit apps for unwed welfare queens.
At the electrical plant job all that it took was a deviation from my usual reply of "marvelous" to any question to scatter the crew. They were slow learners. It took them a couple of weeks to figure out that after our supervisor asked me a stupid question and I rubbed my stomach, doubled over and said "I have really bad gas today" that the inhumane foulness was not the unfortunate act of the wind rolling over the local farm, but the proud Zephyr of my rectum. Most of the guys on the line were good folk, so I gave them fair warning. The engineers and managers were a different story. Any time I had an excuse to wander into the office I would make multiple deposits next to the cute little Red Head's desk and slink away between the cubicles before they looked up from their computer screens and choked with nerdy rage.
Back in the shop all was well unless my ears wears subjected to the retardation of Steely Dan or Rascal Flats. After such a transgression all but the Islander ( because he could kick my ass) were subject to my raging anus. Most of them sought temporary shelter in other product lines. The more dedicated ones pinched their noses and cursed my name while working on with one hand. Either way my bowels were satisfied.
Some of you that that have read this may think that farting on co workers and other idiots is all fun and games. Woe is you. I often found myself all alone. All alone with a warm wet feeling in my pants after the incidents. Not the good the good warm, wet feeling you get after watching that Curvy Redhead on "Mad Men" shake her ass. Sometimes I would say that it was an empty feeling, but I wasn't sure if my pants were empty or not, and I'm not one of those pussies that feels bad after exacting revenge.
Took check the status of my pants I had to make an "Exploratory Wipe". This isn't as easy as it sounds. First you must casually waddle to the restroom undetected. If the shitter is empty then Whoopee. If not you must strategically enter the stall, approach the shitter and turn around and drop your pants. If you don't turn around everyone will wonder why you are unrolling toilet paper while pissing. If the TP is clean you are free to return to the torture of you enemies. If not you have a tactical decision to make. Clean your drawers with TP, or steal drawers from another.
I hope that this post will let other strategic farters know that they are not alone, and give then the strength to fart the good fight.