The Art of [F]art-iculating Well
Humor/Satire by TLB Contributing Author: Rico S. Giron
Our story begins way before modern times, past the Egyptian, past the Babylonians, past the Summerians, past the Annunaki, into a primordial time. A time of monsters and goblins, of barbaric cavemen and women. Of dinosaurs and such. In these olden times, the human race, if we can even call it that, was not very sophisticated or advanced in the culinary arts. Eating was a brutal affair. Blood and guts intermingled with hair and hooves and brains and bones. Of course, the end result coming out at the other end was also brutal. Fumes that could knock out a Mammoth at one quarter mile. In fact, a little known hunting style was a “gas attack”, like WWI, on the unsuspecting Mammoths. After days of gorging themselves on the kill, the village would start a whole village “fart-iculating fest.”
Some of these festivals morphed in many Christian festivals, X-mas, Easter, Lent, and especially Thanksgiving, wherein a specially proclaimed exemption on farticulating, as well as eating like gluttons, was issued by none other than il Vaticano. Hence the origin of the use of incense during Catholic mass. This came about when the Catholic priests, aka, father, which came from the word farter, which came from the word Phucker, and lastly, originated from the term “pedo-phucker”, noticed half of their devoted congregation had fallen asleep during the mass and were silently “sleep farticulating” excessively, incense had the same effect as narcan [naloxone] on an overdosed heroin addict. Ironically, the pedo-phuckers use the incense at the end of the mass, just in time for the collection basket to be passed around, praying that in their distraught and jolted awake state, some of the herd will accidentally drop a 20 or a 50 into the basket, but alas, after years of trickery, the herd instinctively only drop $1 at a time into the basket, which incidentally pisses of the pedo-phucker, and thus numerous masses have been created by el Jefe Vaticano, to keep milking the herd, $1 at a time if neccesary. All is fair in Love and War.
Competing families would put forth their best “fart-iculators”. As time went on, these competent fart-iculators would request podiums and the rest is history. That was the very origin of modern politicians. But in a strange phenomenum that defies the laws of Quantum Physics and Evolution, politicos’ assholes and mouths switched places. Even Einstein could not figure that one out. Darwin would have been truly amazed. WTF?? Soon enough, these podium users, out of their desire to elevate themselves above the ordinary Farticulators, started using a fancy Latin term, “farticulare” to describe themselves. Ancient doctors not to be undone, also followed suit, Latin is a very handy language, murder by doctor, became known as “I-atro-genic.” Now one more time, without the hyphens, Iatrogenic, murder by doctor, see, that was easy. Under the advice of Pig Pharma liaryers, it is always best to blame the victim, especially if the victim is dead. And of course, the best fornicators of languages, world-wide governments. When governments want to hide their “propaganda”, that is to say, on that rare occasion, they use the term, “official government reports.” I will translate that phrase into Latin. “Oficiale cerebrato controlato reportaje.” Just in case you forgot from my other writings, “government” in Latin means, “mind control.”
It is now well recognized by modern linguists that farticulating was a primal, original language that used pheromones the same way Native American Indians used “smoke signals” and millenials use “selfies.” Families turned into clans, clans turned into villages, villages turned into towns, towns turned into cities, cities turned into territories, territories turned into nations, nations turned into NATO. But I jump ahead of myself.
As is normal in all human interactions, bitter schisms developed as the competition got more and more stinky. More and more individuals began to claim the title of “World Champion Fart-icu-lator”, [WCF], this later morphed into many modern factions, WTF, WWF, WWE, WHO, CDC, BILL GAYTES FOUNDATION, CLITORY FOUNDATION, WHODUNNIT FOUNDATION, ASS-SCRATCHERS, FOREHEAD THUMPERS, PINKERTONS, FDR, FUCCI, which was later changed to Fauci, more than can be counted. These champion fart-icu-lators soon began consecrating buildings where their admirers could come and imbibe of their favorite aromas, originally known as “burnt offerings to the gods”. Hence the origin of the “Priestly Class Farticulators” [PCF], later also known as the Politically Correct Farticulators, which eventually split into the two modern political parties, Dem-o-rats and Republicant’s. Initially, these aromatic poisons were affecting the old people primarily, especially if they had pre-existing co-morbidities, were just plain old, had eaten too many hooves or bones, or had smoked too many pipes of ground up Mammoth hairs. Alarmed, the World Champion Fart-icu-lators allied themselves with the Priestly Class Fart-icu-lators in an attempt to understand this new disease. At first they were baffled, it seemed everyone was eating pretty much the same stuff, but how was it affecting the elderly primarily?
As an aside, archaeological expeditions conducted with millions of tax dollars, have uncovered vast numbers of skulls with one side smashed in and until the more recent modern research on Farticulating, was unexplainable. The most recent theory is that WCFs were systemically exterminated by their fellow villagers after years of enduring massive farticulation poisoning, like a slow arsenic poisoning by the Borgias or a betrayed wife, hence the saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” Individual hamlets have shown the same pattern, male skulls display a distinct pattern of caved in skulls. Now with the power of the Electron Microscope, analysis has shown microscopic chunks of rock leftover from hand held boulders used to smash in these skulls, and concurrently, microscopic pieces of wood leftover from the clubs used to smash these skulls in. Thus one of the greatest mysteries of Archaeology has been solved by Science, again.
After decades of this pandemic, with no vaccines in sight, the WCF and the PCF began to conduct some serious investigations. Initially, they called on the WTFs, ASS-SCRATCHERS, and FOREHEAD THUMPERS who were just as baffled. The WTFs just scratched their heads, and exclaimed, WTF? They were especially known for doing that. THE ASS-SCRATCHERS scratched their asses and stood around smelling their fingers, while the FOREHEAD THUMPERS, just kept thumping their foreheads and saying “Phuck, I should have known that”, and eventually smashed in their own skulls, most commonly with hand held boulders called AR-1 [assault rock-1] which later morphed into the notorious, AR-15, which is the Patriots and Conspiracy theorists, favorite version. Steve Cook, TLB. Eventually the ASS-SCRATCHERS were accused of “Stinkery” and thus, a new round of burnings at the stake was initated, for the few that escaped, they found refuge in Siberia. It being so cold, that frost bite was a more serious threat than stinkery. As time passed, the FOREHEAD THUMPERS, self-eliminated. The original head of the clan, was known as “Vince Foster I.”
Then they called all of the top WCFs and PCFs, including the original FUCCIs, well known for their mail-order doctors’ degrees, from clans far and wide. After many moons and sleepless nights, this consortium of WCFs, WTFs and PCFs began to realize the most common trait factor affecting the old was that the old were kept in the deepest recesses of the caves, with no ventilation, no fresh air, no one ever visited them, they were tied, four cornered to the ground in order to save on medical staff, no sunlight, poor food, mostly leftovers, to save on feeding costs, [this system of feeding morphed into our modern school system cafeterias for our children, but later was refined into fancy restaurants under pressure from the WTFs]. Additionally, this style of warehousing the old morphed into the modern Senior Care Facilities. I take it back, we do learn from history.
Fast forward to American colonial times. In Salem particularly, witch burning became a village holiday. While these women were accused of “witchcraft”, the reality was they has lost their inhibitions for public farticulating. Unable to control their public farticulating, these women were easily accused of “stinkery”, one of the well known characteristics of Witchcraft.
Fast forward now to the Victorian times. During this debauched era, farticulating was refined to a masterful degree. The corsets worn were used to squeeze out the farticulates and then the bell shaped dressed were used to capture the farticulate matter, and thus being able to farticulate in public or private all day long to their heart’s content without being detected or heard. Or should I say, to their “Asshole’s Content.” In the event that a MOAF caused a small tremor, it was blamed on earthquakes. When a silent but deadly one somehow got detected, it was immediately assumed that a witch was nearby. And lastly, if a Bubble Farticulate made it upwards past the corset and caused a feinting spell, it was ass-umed [like present day, all worldwide deaths are ass-umed to be Corona-beer-us deaths], the excitement of the day had overwhelmed the proper Victorian lady. However, the deadliest time for the bell-shaped dress wearing Victorian Belles, was in the evening at retirement to their bedrooms. It is well known that many a servant died ignominious, yet painful deaths, upon assisting their ladies to undress. Conspiracy theories of the time blamed this stench for the origin of the Modern Black Plague, a multiplicity of unknown diseases, which in modern times are simply called “autoimmune diseases.” The Victorian Belles of course developed “herd immunity” and thus immune to their own stench. Many a servant was known to prefer to be excoriated with a Februa [a whip with spikes] instead of assisting their Victorian Belles undress.
Just in case I have a slacker or slow reader, like the signs in local neighborhoods, “Slow Children at Play”, its’ bad enough that these poor children are slow, but then to advertise it, seems like cruel and unusual punishment. The official definitions of Farticulating are; 1. gender neutral, “Art of Farticulating well in the presence of other humans, whether in public or private”; 2. male gender, Arty Farty; 3. female gender, Fatty Matty; 4. Political speech, the Art of Farting thru the mouth while using eloquent hand gestures and making it sound important like the “State of the Nation” annual speeches, now known as a Trumpism, formerly knows as an Obamisms, which incidently developed from Jive talk, Harlem jive or simply Jive (also known as the argot of jazz, jazz jargon, vernacular of the jazz world, slang of jazz, and parlance of hip) was an African-American Vernacular English slang that developed in Harlem, where “jive” (jazz) was played and was adopted more widely in African-American society, .. [Black Dictionary of Jive Talk], and silently morphed into the Soros Blackism, “Black Lives Matter”.
Farticulating in a public space is especially tricky. Many a time I have had to farticulate in a public space, I have checked in every direction, seen no one, and comfortably let one squeeze out, those silent squeezers are the deadliest, hence the saying, “Silent but deadly”, is not referring to Ninjas, and in one nano second, people materialize from every direction out of nowhere, and descend within feet of my position. WTF? How did this happen? At that point, there is no escape, I must endure the shame and embarrassment of being detected. If it wasn’t that I was half conscious from the effects of smelling my own farticulate matter, I would be a lot more shamed and embarrassed. I am in a farticulate fog. But afterwards, I realized I rather enjoyed the “farticulate high”, hence the saying, “My farticulates don’t stink that bad.” That is exactly what the ASS-SCRATCHERS kept telling everyone when asked if they had any last wishes, “My fingers don’t stink that bad, come here, smell-um. This is not fair. Phuck all of you clean finger bastards.”
As these materialized ghosts hit the invisible wall of farticulate smog, they look at me with disgust, “Dude, really, WTF” and quickly make a detour and leave the area as fast as possible [AFAP]. There is nothing to be done, just grin and bear it. Son-of-male-dog, aka, sire, I hate it when that happens. Wait a second, did you just get that. A female dog is called a “bitch” and a male dog is called a “sire”, [sire (n.) c. 1200, title placed before a name and denoting knighthood, from Old French sire “lord (appellation), sire, my lord,” from Vulgar Latin *seior, from Latin senior “older, elder,” from PIE root *sen- “old.” Standing alone and meaning “your majesty” it is attested from early 13c. General sense of “important elderly man” is from mid-14c.; that of “father, male parent” is from mid-13c.] I would say that sounds like racism, but it is actually more of a dogism. Or more correctly, more of a sexism wrapped in a dogism. I wonder what PETA has to say about that doggy discrepancy?
There are many styles of farticulating. Of course as referred to above, Silent, but deadly; [Women use this tactic on their husbands, and is known as the Silent Treatment, also known as pouting in their teenage years, another common tactic is the “if looks could kill”, and not to be outdone, “How could you?”, which leaves the husband in total confusion, he has no idea what he is being accused of doing], Squeezer/Whistlers; MOAFs, Mother of all Farts; [closely related to the military MOABs], that rip out your sphincter; SHARTS, when you farticulate and shit in your shorts simultaneously, a phenomenon that again seems to particularly affect the elderly population, like the fake Corona-beer-us, hence the saying “never trust a fart or a jew”. There are as many varieties as there are humans but to the 15th power. 7,000,000,000 to the 15th power. Then there are the infamous Bubble Farticulates, thru a strange phenomenum, unexplainable even thru Quantum Physics, these farticulates remain in a bubble as they roll up your spine or stomach, at times they break into smaller bubbles, but still intact, and just when you think you are safe, bam, they hit your nostrils. Son of a sire, [see paragraph above], I knew I shouldn’t have had that “Whitey food” at the Cracker Barrel. Hey, I am Mexican, if you are white, you can say “Mexican food”, but I am writing this, so screw you.
All in all, I have to say, the best farticulate is the closed window, car farticulate. You can only do this with your fishing or Super Bowl buddies. If you dare do this with your wife, you will very soon be served divorce papers. How could you do this to me? And the kids, how is this going to affect them for the rest of their lives. When my son reached his teenage years, he decided to bond with me. On more than one occasion, on a hot summer day, driving my Expedition, with the windows rolled up and the air conditioner on full blast, my son decided to create a bonding experience with me, he would release a Silent but Deadly farticulate. When the stench would hit me, I was like, “Seriously dude, phuck that stinks”, upon which moment I realized I had to pull over on the shoulder before I passed out, and roll down the windows. My son was of course, laughing his head off. Afterwards, in a great bonding moment, I would high five him, “That was a good one, son.”
I knew my time would come, after all, I am the Papa Bull. Patience my friend. Later in August, the hottest part of Summer, same thing, with the windows rolled up and the air conditioner going full blast, I would rip out a Farticulate combination Silent but Deadly, MOAF, bubbled wrapped that could strip the rust off an old Ford truck. When it would hit my son, he would react violently, “Dad, what the phuck, roll down the windows”, at which time in, my perverse Daddy Tough Love, I would lock the windows and doors. My son would be begging me to roll down the windows, but I steadfastly refused, he would gag and be on the verge of throwing up on the dashboard [it would have been worth it to me], and threatening to jump out the SUV at 60 miles per hour. His eyes would tear up and he almost lost consciousness more than once, but with my Daddy Tough Love, we bonded very nicely. They say “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” I beg to differ a little, “I say Revenge is a farticulate best served hot on a hot August day.” Luv ya Son!!
Then there are the Private Farticulate Fests. This is where men shine. A well recognized phenomenon, I love that word, is that women never fart in public or private [at least that is what women tell their husbands and children.] Of course, a woman would rather suffer a hernia than farticulate in public. Perhaps the best known Private Farticulate Fest for men is the nationwide annual gatherings of the Super Bowl parties. Men can indulge themselves in eating pretty well anything, from possum and raccoon road kill, to Doritos, Cheese balls, jalapeno dip, 7 Layer Bean Dip, Holy Guacamole and everything they can get their hands on, A-Z. And of course, vast amounts of beers of all varieties, to wash down this toxic combination of non-foods and settle the stomach, but especially, Budweiser and Coors, which are known to be a major cause of diarrhea in Africa and South America, and hard liquor in fancy bottles and fancier names. “USA, USA, USA!!!”, seems to be the favorite spontaneous chant for drunken Super Bowlers!!!
Oh, I almost forgot, there are the “Under-the-covers-in-bed” farticulate fests. Truly a work of [f]art. I remember many a time when I was still married, the wife and I would be asleep, spooning comfortably, with her butt in my crotch, and then out of nowhere, I would first hear, and then feel, a detonation, like a distant dynamite explosion, but being half asleep, I could not react fast enough to save myself. Before I could move, the Bubble Farticulate had rolled up between us, and hit my nostrils. Before I knew what was happening, I was paralyzed, and eventually passed out. In the morning, my wife would coyly ask, “Did you sleep well honey?” All I could say was, “I don’t know, I think I passed out, but I have this damn headache.” It always seemed that I detected a “twinkle in her eyes” every time when I said that I had a headache. Surely she knew. Later I realized this was my lovely wife’s manner of keeping me under her control, in a female Farticulate Fog. A modern, softer version of ancient witchcraft. Later in her menopausal years, my lovely wife morphed into the Creature from the Black Lagoon and secretly joined the secret and elusive “International Order of Sisterhood of the Creatures from the Black Lagoon” with their headquarters in the underground caverns of the Sistine Chapel. This Sisterhood has now been scientifically proven to be the cause of greying hair and baldness in men, excessive masturbating, and in extreme cases, of premature death. That brings back an ancient memory, long forgotten. While still married, we did in fact visit the Sistine Chapel, and she disappeared for the afternoon, at first I was frantic, but when she returned she had glow about her, like the virgin Mary, so I did not question her. Only now do I realize that she had visited her Sisterhood in the caverns and was officially initiated into the order. Indeed, happy times for her.
Live well, farticulate long, loud and often.
My Voice is the Cry from the Wilderness.
Image Credit: “Warning! Lifting incorrectly may induce explosive farts” (in featured Image) by Cornish Cactus is licensed under CC BY 2.0
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About the Author, Rico S. Giron: I have been writing and journaling non-professionally for 43 years. My ongoing adventures into personal literature began when I was 18 years old. My life has been an exploration and adventure in consciousness and philosophical meanderings … To find out more please visit Rico on facebook
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