by Sally Putterman
Some people would be very shocked if they heard me
fart. Tooting is not who I am. It is not a part of my body’s vernacular. I’m not the type of person to let one rip in
the middle of a party or a family gathering or even among my most intimate relations.
I save them up. I
store them in the deepest recesses of my bootal cavity until an appropriate
time and place presents itself, preferably someplace devoid of populace,
someplace isolated. Usually the toilet. Then, oh but then, I release my gas with such power and passion
that its glory knows no bounds.
When I am alone I am loud and proud, but in public I am
silent but deadly.
“Who did that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I know it wasn’t her.”
As far as anyone else is concerned, I don’t do that sort of
thing. Through skill and training I have
been able to maintain my secret and protect my identity.
I am the Anti-Poot.
