Perfection, Shrub be thy name

Today, by sheer accident, I achieved perfection.

I’ve always been taught perfection, by definition, is unattainable. Not so, for I reached, touched, and felt that which is flawless this very afternoon.

Let me set the stage for you…

I was at this place finishing some errands when I felt a twinge. ‘Twas not your ordinary twinge but the ominous harbinger of deadly forces afoot. I sensed something was about to burst, so I stealthily made my way to a deserted corner of the store and unleashed Hell on Earth.

What flew out of my rectum was a cloud of noxious gas that would’ve gagged a maggot. I’d let the perfect fart.

Now the sheer volume of gas that escaped was startling as was the thermo-nuclear explosion that emanated from ‘twixt my butt cheeks. The loud music playing over the PA masked what was the crowning achievement of my time here on terra firma. This fart had volume, duration, and stench. It was beautiful.

As a male you learn to love the smell of your own farts, and this was no exception. I wanted to bottle it in a glass vial that I’d wear around my neck and open up and sniff whenever I was in a bad mood. I’m smiling just thinking about it.

As the cloud deepened and ripened I found myself giddy, giddy as the first time I grasped a female breast under the bra. I giggled with the glee of a Leprechaun and the joy of a child waiting for the ice cream man. I wafted in the essence of eternal bliss, immersed myself in the pungent juices, and marinated in the odor. I was in rapture.

This thing would’ve stripped the bark off a tree. I could ingest burritos for the next month, glue my poop chute closed, open it up in June, and the gas that would escape would pale in comparison to today’s odiferous emanation.

Oh, to say I was moved to tears is a misnomer. I cried because perfection is so rarely seen let alone felt. It was the type of fart we men all dream of, the kind as little boys we listened to with doe-eyed enthusiasm as our elder male figures regaled us with salvos from turkey dinners at the holidays. They were gaseous gods and we were Plebian mortals.

But today I reached for and grasped immortality. This was the kind of fart that changes the chemical composition of the air and can cause atmospheric degradation. Now I know why the angels haves wings, to keep the aroma of such events from destroying the ozone layer.

Behold perfection peasants, and remember, thou art mortal.