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.

Well done, sir.

DAMN that was funny reading!

Your're going to 'shart' your way out of a job!

Possibly get your ass whipped. It happens man! Worst fight I've seen as a shop foreman was when one mechanic farted on another.....and so it began!!!! By the time I arrived to break up the fight, one mechanic(farted on tech) had broken his hand, and the other one(malicous farter) was tits up, choking on his bubble gum! Had to flip him over so he could breath.

Well then. Its a damn good thing that I was there to blast ass and chew Copehagen and not there to get my ass kicked and chew bubble gum.

I'm not saying your 'gas attacks' are against the Geneva Convention, or any other articals of industrial warfare, but shit happens.

Fart....er ah....shart your way to victory....or unemployment...it may be worth it if you achieve victory!!

I wonder what a classic liberal would say about my adventure? I think that it would go like this.

"While Lazarae I disagree with what you fart, I will choke to the death to defend your right to fart it."

A classic liberal's shirt wouldn't touch his back until he had reported to the boss how you had farted on him.

Had a pain in the ass customer who would bring his truck in for virtually nothing...just to bitch about it...or get some little squeak he had heard checked out. Used up a lot of shop time on this joker for nothing. This guy wanted it all warranty.

He ran over an armadillo and claimed it made his truck drive funny(3/4 ton Chevrolet)! Must have damaged the front end.

I put his truck up on the lift and was checking it out. Nothing wrong, nothing bent, did have some gore on the left front suspension and down the dide of the truck. While the vehicle was on the lift, the customer comes out of the waiting area, and walks under the truck with me to bitch about it. This about 20 seconds after I had just about shit my drawers with a huge gas attack!

Customer starts to bitch about running over an armadillo jacking up his front end alignment, and gets a couple lungfuls of 'mustard gas'!! The poor fucker about pukes, then states that "the armadillos sure stink don't they".

You did the right thing son. If you get the chance again do take a few moments and block his way out of the pit.