Farts - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Stinky farts were a badge of honour in the barracks. If you could drop them just at the right time to get someone else in trouble you were practically royalty. It was worth eating kale just to bring up the full bodied smell of rotten egg. I can say with full honesty that I prided myself on producing only the stinkiest of farts and always making the most of every valuable expulsion.
"What causes farts? What causes farts? Is that what you want to know, Ted? What causes them is you eating so many damn dark green vegetables in your damn smoothies right after chucking back a bowl of fibre cereal. If we were supposed to get that much fibre in one go we'd be damn rabbits. I'm only surprised you don't shit water."
"Rigsby, you're farting too much."
"There's a quota?"
"I'd like to see that. Times New Roman. Twelve point font. Double spaced."
"You'll get it written in vomit if you don't can it. Your farts smell worse than Vera's halitosis."
"Why do my farts smell so bad?" is all Crista would whine every time she let rip. We should have consoled her, said something soothing, but we were all too busy fighting to leave the room first. Eventually Dad would win and do his victory dance, bursting out into the fresh air. But Crista was right, they really did stink. If I was her nose I'd be resigning in protest.
Every winter it's a battle to keep my dad away from the brussel sprouts. He loves them. But every time he eats them, without fail, he fumigates the house with his sulphurous flatulence. He's worse than the dog. At least with him you get a small 'pftt' of warning. Dad's are silent and deadly. He always denies them too, tries to blame it on someone else. But we know his special aroma. We also know he enjoys laying them too, he think's it's funny to stink up the house. Mom's stopped buying them but now he comes home with a bag from the green grocers, grinning like a school boy.
Ernie said he actually enjoyed his own 'brews'. He would let rip in class and sit there with a smug expression sniffing the air as if it were the delicate bouquet of an expensive wine. Then he would go on to describe his farts and their delicate hues of whatever he had ingested the day before.
I tried not to piss off my cell mate. If I did he would eat nothing but cabbage for dinner and perfume the air of our cell with his own personal fragrance. It would be enough to wake the dead. It was torture.
The putrid smell of unpassed faeces permeates the air of the car. It's raining and blowing a gale outside so we are trapped in it's brain-numbing disgustingness. My Mom snickers and says, " just a bottom-burp", as if using baby language makes it any more tolerable. Now I sit in the full knowledge that the air passing up my nostrils has come from my mother's anus. I gag. I'm trapped in the vile aroma of sewage. Her sewage. My eyes begin to water and I try to hold my breath, but that only leads to me having to take deeper breaths after. I can't take it anymore, I open the window and let the rain in. Mom howls at me and I stare back defiantly. If I have to suffer so does she. I'd rather take the cold and the wet than that horrendous stench.
Women farting was so common place they didn't even try to hide it, gone were the days of bashfully hiding it or dashing to the lavatory. It was as if they so resented the death of chivalry that they were prepared to be as uncouth as the foulest of men.
Fart gas was more common than perfume in our locker room. Those girls ate healthy, no denying it, but man, it stunk worse than a sewage pit when they let it all out. Whoever said "Women don't fart" didn't know what the hell they were talking about. It smelt like something had crawled up their backsides and died.