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You are viewing The Daily Farts - 8 of 8
Published July 31, 2011 More Info »
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Published July 31, 2011
My pops is a boss in every sense of the word. Even better than the king of all bosses: Gordon Gecko.Struggling as a less-than-successful public defender (aka pussy), he branched out and founded a firm dedicated to defending the rights of those millions of white, upper-middle class Americans afflicted by DUI’s. The dude made bank. And he keeps making bank thanks to his hundreds of alcoholic golfing buddies. Textbook American capitalism, bitches.

Since he assumes I’ll take over the family biz, he occasionally puts my xboxing on hold and has me visit his top-floor Manhattan office. I don’t usually mind because when I’m there, he gives me bills to quiet my bitching (words of wisdom: if you develop the sensibility to remain shameless after your toddler years, temper tantrums will bring far greater rewards).

This particular visit, however, was painful. I was extremely hungover and didn’t have a lip because my bitch ma got pissed I developed oral cancer and confiscated my tins. Fuggin’ cunt. So I strode through the ground floor of the office building, mean muggin’ every fuckface who passed by. And it was apparent I was definitely not in God’s good graces today when a fleet of MADD feminist Nazis gave me no room to breathe in the elevator.

To make matters worse, the elevator broke down between the third and fourth floors, and we were stuck listening to Clay Aiken’s greatest hits on repeat. At the moment I could not fathom a more horrible scenario: stuck in an enclosed area with a hoard of bitches looking to demean my father's accomplishments. And, more importantly, take money from me and my family. With no foreseeable way of cheering myself up, I decided to make these shitstains as miserable as I was.

At first I mulled over things to say like: “Did you ladies have to go through a training program to become Hitler's whores?” or “Do you guys always use sandpaper for tampons?”. But I decided to dish out a punishment far worse. The SBD.

For those of you who didn’t have fun as a child, SBD stands for Silent But Deadly. Typically the farts falling into the SBD category are accidentally produced. But in certain, driven individuals who have tirelessly worked to harness the power to summon SBDs at a moment’s notice, they are produced with purpose.

Being one of those individuals, and with the desire to wipe the smirks off of every single one of those smug faces, I inaudibly tooted. You can imagine my happiness as I watched these women suspiciously peering at one another, attempting to "sniff out" the culprit. As moments passed, and as it became clear the smell was there to stay, things started spiraling out of control. One bitch after another fell to the floor passed out, while the remaining few panicked trying to alleviate and comprehend the situation. I could not contain the overwhelming joy in my heart. Laughing hysterically and thoroughly impressed with my flatulence, I quickly muttered “fun haters!” before I succumbed to my own creation and collapsed.
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