If farting was an Olympic sport, my dad would get a gold medal. He let long, loud and smelly ones rip all day, every day. I’d hate to meet the person who could beat him.
I usually went to his garage after school. All the mechanics who worked there wore gas-masks. His stink was so strong, it cut across the odor of grease and oil. The deal was that I did homework in his office. But he was too busy to notice that I was really playing on-line games. I was the only one who ever went in there – nobody else would have survived the stench. My nose had gotten used to it after living with him for ten years. Customers had been known to faint when they stepped in to pay their bill.
When I walked in, he was loosening some wheel-nuts. The drill made a loud whzz-whzz, but not loud enough to hide his phhrttt.
“Hey Dad, think of all the money you’d save if you stopped using compressed air and powered your tools with farts instead!” I always said that instead of “hello”.
“I’d get as more mileage if I used your hot air, Mart,” he grinned back.
"I brought someone to meet you," I told him. "He was a guest speaker at school today. May I present Jacques Rogge, President of the International Olympic Committee."
"Mart told me all about you," Mr. Rogge said, shaking Dad's hand. "That's how I got the idea. We've been trying for years to come up with a new event that Americans might actually be good at."
Opening: anon......Continuation: Anon.