This is the Fasting Season, not the Farting Season

A chap, high on the hashish, boards a bus…

Now, at this point, the story could take very many turns. The guy could refuse to pay the fare, he could rhyme to Bobi Wine weed song(s?) or he could try selling the half-stick of marijuana in his shirt pocket to the driver.

The story can go both ways – ay, that’s not a buffalo. We’re still waiting for Prince Cambridge to invent “thrice ways”. Until then, yuck it up.

But the chap is Arthur Wonny (until recently, aka Timmy) So the story will most likely be a lurid tale of anxiety. And cowardice.

*

I sat across from a sweet little dumdum. Immediately to my right, a fella without a lick of hair on his head shuffled in his seat. Half-wits don’t need Google Images to identify Muslims. Their hair has this high affinity for the chin and, apparently, likes to be called Side Burrrn.

Anyway, I’m high, hot chic to my left, Muslim to my right – basically, something which would make the perfect rap line. I’m still deciding whether to pull out my phone and tweet about it when all of a sudden…BA-BOMB!

A fart the size of Zaire upper-cutted my nostrils like POOFFFFFF-AAHHH!

Sweet Jesus, what the - hey! Can't you see the sign???

Instant.Amnesia.

I quickly turned and scowled my nose. Sweet Dumdum looked at me the same way Minnie looks at Mickey when they are about to have sex but Mickey says some inappropriate claptrap and Minnie pulls her panties back on. And Mickey pulls out a gun like

Bitch, you better gimme some

I managed a half smile – half scowl and pulled out my John Grisham. You’re a mutt and you deserve to die if you think I should have said/done something.

Like, “hey, is it you or is it me who just launched some massive weaponry of ass-destruction? What, me? Well Kudos to myself you fuckin muck.”

When I was a tween – which is just a teen who hasn’t given/received a blowjob yet – farting was a commonplace fool’s errand. We found that shit funny. If it wasn’t for my lack of memory (or, to put a positive spin on it, my surplus of forgetfulness), I bet I could remember all the members of Team Fart-In-People’s-Lockers-During-Lunch-Break.

So, I let it slide. Perhaps he was having a tough time keeping things together – what, with all the fasting and everything. I looked at him with quiet, feigned, empathy like the whole thing was a wonderful misunderstanding.

Before long, the guy raised his foot and about four seconds later, the sneaky little fart sodomised my nostrils – Again. I swear to God, I’m not lying – the guy smiled.

Oh, so it’s like that motherfucker?

I wasn’t going to sit around inhaling whatever daku (spelling?) this Willy Wanker had stuffed at dawn because I’m trying to be nice because this asshole is having a bad day? Or should I say that this asshole’s asshole is having a bad day?

I was going to manufacture my own fart and send it right back.

**You can place your bets here**

I tried. I focused. I thought about food and bog and everything that has been associated with farts. 

But Weetabix and weed give lousy farts so mine came out kinda like a kitten purr. No one heard it, not even my neighbours, Pretty Dumdum and Boldhead Farts.

I felt small and embarrassed.

To make matters worse, he let out another bazooker. And he had this amused look like he was making my day by shooting bughatti farts at a rate of 5farts/km.

I’m a coward. I didn’t have the language to express my feelings but questions were running through my head like;

Did I wake up this morning and say to myself, ‘Self, what would make your day?... Hitting the lottery?... Becoming a ninja?...The unexpected death of Justin Beiber? Sitting on a cross-country bus inhaling Muslim Farts? Why, yes, that would make my day. In fact it would make my life worth living!’

Paris Jackson, please walk me through one of your suicide sessions. Thank you, you may now kill yourself like you’ve always wanted.

*

I don’t know a lot about anything but I know a little bit of everything. When it comes to fasting (and farting), I believe you are supposed to keep it to yourself. As soon as it clocks 6pm – immediately, on the dot, the fella announces that he has been fasting and orders for a stick of meat chops. Like dude, you’ll be home in 15 minutes, would it make much difference? Matter of fact, why not go like 3 or 4 or 40 days like Jesus?

Wait, Jesus was a Christian

That sounds funny. Almost like saying Arthur was a Kukuss.

I’m out of stuff to write. But if any of this offends you, or you happen to love puppies and kittens and the infirm… well… I’m impressed. I don’t like you much, but I’m impressed.

Okay, bye.

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