Nobody wants to hear about my ass.
It was a crazy insane busy week leading up to this, but now I am blogging to you from Wombat Secret HQ somewhere on the Jersey Shore. Let me tell you that Wombat Beach HQ is a place of intense relaxation, and I, my blog-buddies, am loving it like a road-tripping businessman loves a 20 buck blowjob.
Hmm... The relaxation seems to have affected my ability to craft a decent metaphor. Let's move on.
At any rate, I'm here with the oft-mentioned-in-this-blog Paul, and his boyfriend Ferdinand. (okay, that's a fake name. It's far too late to protect Paul's identity on this blog, but I may as well give Ferd a little anonymity...) Sal unfortunately couldn't make it this week, so she's holding the fort down at home. I have to say in regards to Paul and Ferdinand, that for a pair of gay men, they are not very... well... gay. Neither of them seems to have gotten the memo about the prancing and clubbing and singing of show-tunes. Neither Paul nor Ferd remotely fits into the typical stereotype of "gay man," well except for the part about fucking guys. They both come down firmly on the side of "yes" to fucking guys, but "no" to the Pet Shop Boys. It's uncanny.
Anyway, the thing that sent me keyboard-ward this morning is that derspite the fact that Paul and Ferdinand are terrible at being mincing queens, they are both, much to my dismay, not at all interested in hearing about my farts.
The minute I mention my farts, or turds, or anything else that comes out of my butt (um... what else comes out of my butt?) they both look at me like I just shit in their tea. And if you've ever had your tea shit in, you know what I'm talking about.
And so, with Sally hours away, and the world's worst queers in no mood to hear about my anal troubles, who does that leave?
You got it, blog-buddies.
And so all of that was juat a very loooooong way of getting to where I can tell you that this morning when I woke up, I farted, and it smelled like a KFC had had sweaty sex with a three-day-old cheese sandwich. It was one of those lingering morning stinkers that sends you leaping from the bed, teary eyed. I wasn't even ready to wake up, but the brown cloud chewing the wallpaper in my bedroom sort of forced the issue. I couldn't imagine what I had eaten the previous night that would account for such a monsterous odor, so I can only conclude that while I was sleeping, and entire garbage truck somehow drove up my rectum. Hey, it could happen. Anyway, I'm now hiding in the living room and waiting for the horrible, horrible thing that escaped my butthole to come out from the bedroom and kill us all.
Man, I feel much better now that I've gotten that off my chest. Sometimes for people like myself, who are unfit for integration into human society, talking about the fart is more relieving than actually letting the fart out. Aaaaaaaaaaaahhh.
Okay, raise your hand if you are never reading my blog again... Hmmm, that many huh? I see ACW is still with me... How did I know? Well for those of you that stick around, I promise that the next dispatch from Wombat Beach HQ will be something more high-brow.
It would have to be, wouldn't it?
Hmm... The relaxation seems to have affected my ability to craft a decent metaphor. Let's move on.
At any rate, I'm here with the oft-mentioned-in-this-blog Paul, and his boyfriend Ferdinand. (okay, that's a fake name. It's far too late to protect Paul's identity on this blog, but I may as well give Ferd a little anonymity...) Sal unfortunately couldn't make it this week, so she's holding the fort down at home. I have to say in regards to Paul and Ferdinand, that for a pair of gay men, they are not very... well... gay. Neither of them seems to have gotten the memo about the prancing and clubbing and singing of show-tunes. Neither Paul nor Ferd remotely fits into the typical stereotype of "gay man," well except for the part about fucking guys. They both come down firmly on the side of "yes" to fucking guys, but "no" to the Pet Shop Boys. It's uncanny.
Anyway, the thing that sent me keyboard-ward this morning is that derspite the fact that Paul and Ferdinand are terrible at being mincing queens, they are both, much to my dismay, not at all interested in hearing about my farts.
The minute I mention my farts, or turds, or anything else that comes out of my butt (um... what else comes out of my butt?) they both look at me like I just shit in their tea. And if you've ever had your tea shit in, you know what I'm talking about.
And so, with Sally hours away, and the world's worst queers in no mood to hear about my anal troubles, who does that leave?
You got it, blog-buddies.
And so all of that was juat a very loooooong way of getting to where I can tell you that this morning when I woke up, I farted, and it smelled like a KFC had had sweaty sex with a three-day-old cheese sandwich. It was one of those lingering morning stinkers that sends you leaping from the bed, teary eyed. I wasn't even ready to wake up, but the brown cloud chewing the wallpaper in my bedroom sort of forced the issue. I couldn't imagine what I had eaten the previous night that would account for such a monsterous odor, so I can only conclude that while I was sleeping, and entire garbage truck somehow drove up my rectum. Hey, it could happen. Anyway, I'm now hiding in the living room and waiting for the horrible, horrible thing that escaped my butthole to come out from the bedroom and kill us all.
Man, I feel much better now that I've gotten that off my chest. Sometimes for people like myself, who are unfit for integration into human society, talking about the fart is more relieving than actually letting the fart out. Aaaaaaaaaaaahhh.
Okay, raise your hand if you are never reading my blog again... Hmmm, that many huh? I see ACW is still with me... How did I know? Well for those of you that stick around, I promise that the next dispatch from Wombat Beach HQ will be something more high-brow.
It would have to be, wouldn't it?
posted by CommonWombat at 1:34 PM
13 Comments:
i'll be back, but only because the internet doesn't carry smell.
once they figure that out, you've lost me.
You are truly unique!
I'm with Miss Kendra, if aroma.bogging follows audio.blogging I'm off too.
Damnit! How did you know? Get out of my brain!
By the way, I had just released some vapors myself while reading your post, so it was like I had smellovision.
It's alcohol. You must have been drinking. That stuff creates havoc in your insides.
I'm glad we can be here for you in your time of need... but next time, can you put a warning... I know it's mental but I think my morning muffin tasts like sweaty fried chicken and cheese sandwich sex.
You are a sick and twisted wombat. :)
Dear LORD that was funny! Now you have to blog about the time you woke up covered with my shoes ... no, wait, that's because your MOUTH was making so much noise. Wrong orifice, sorry.
Love Madam Dog Butt
While I am sorry I had to read about your vile butt smells, I am glad I got to read a blog entry today that incorporated the word "mincing." So thank you, Smelly Ass Man.
I once woke James up with a fart so rancid he got out of bed to let the dog out, afraid the stench would be follwed by a stinky pile on the carpet.
I never owned up to it.
Not to him, at least.
*Giggle*
i just never thought about posting about farts. i will keep it in mind though wombat.
Hm, I wonder what would happen if we put your KFC/3DayCheese fart up against Honey's Seafood and Tequila Green Bomb?
UFC, you're toast--it's time for United Fart!
I am sure Paul just doesn't want to look like a dork in front of his boyfriend, so he is pretending likes it's the most heinous act in the world!!
If you think "long and hard" enough, the reason Paul and Ferd are offended by ass-chat might occur to you. It did me, and I'm the worse for it.
As for bad farts, never, EVER do it in an enclosed hotel room, as I learned last weekend. I ripped one oddly reminiscent of a mixture of chili and dingo ass gland, and to make it worse, I was sharing the room with a buddy and neither of us could sleep for like 2 hours. There is no ventilation in those rooms.
okay..im not blog-stalking..but I just read back through september and the KFC having sex with a cheese sandwhich just did me in. Not did me in as I cant read your blog anymore..but more like Im done for the night and will come back and archive some more tomorrow.
Holy shit you are funny!
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