One evening I fixed one of my favorite specialty dishes for dinner, which I like to call my "Beantastic Bean Surprise." I can't tell you the secret recipe, but it has lots of beans in it. I was really hungry that night and ate the whole thing instead of saving half of it for leftovers like I usually do.
Well, it didn't take long for all those beans to start going to work, and as I sat in my favorite swivel recliner later on, watching a "Lone Ranger" DVD, I felt the initial rumblings of the most-colossal-fart-ever coming on like gassy gangbusters. Fearing internal injury if I tried to hold it in or release it in short, measured bursts, I rared back and let go. And suddenly, in one mighty, thunderous blast of noxious gas, Mike Myers came flying out of my ass.
He landed on his feet and held up his arms with that big, trademark grin on his face. "TA-DAAAAAH!" he said grandly.
I blinked my eyes in amazement, and suddenly Mike Myers was gone. Then I realized that he'd never really been there, and my hallucination had been caused by the trememdous pressure of my impending fart, which hadn't even occurred yet. Or had it?
It was at that moment that I realized I was in a time warp, and that my gigantic fart had somehow been caught in a temporal loop that was destined to replay itself over and over--perhaps for eternity--but with a different outcome each time, and with each variance creating its own separate timeline!
With the pressure reaching its apex once again, I let go with yet another fart of tremendous magnitude. This time, a 1957 Buick Skylark came blasting out of my ass with a terrified Katie Couric at the wheel. "How did I get here?" I heard her scream as the car crashed through the front wall of my house and went careening down the street.
The gaping hole in my wall disappeared as the time loop reset itself for another go. Again my bowels roiled. Again I felt myself helplessly swept away in an impending gastric maelstrom of horrific proportions.
Suddenly the phone rang. Staggering to my feet, thus creating yet another variable in this latest timeline of terror, I lurched toward the phone. Too late! The fart exploded out of my ass with the force of a nuclear blast and was ignited by a decorative raspberry-scented candle that I'd lit earlier that evening, propelling me through the roof of my house with a thunderous crash. Flames spewing from my rear end, I flew like a skyrocket halfway across town and plunged through the front window of a Chuck-E-Cheese, colliding with a guy in a Bozo costume and killing us both instantly. The children who were there attending Timmy Wilson's birthday party squealed with delight and applauded.
Again I reappeared in my recliner at the start of the time loop. As the evening dragged on, the temporal fart-warp replayed itself again and again. I lost count of the seemingly endless variations. In one of them, I interrupted Al Gore's latest global warming speech in front of the U.N. general assembly by fart-blasting him through a brick wall. In another, the Lone Ranger actually froze dead in his tracks on my TV screen and screamed, "Holy buffalo sh**, Tonto! What the flying fu** is that godawful stench?" And in one amazing instance, my fart actually went back in time and knocked Christopher Columbus over the rail of his ship.
Finally, at the start of yet another time variation, I remembered a bottle of Beano that I'd been keeping in the kitchen cabinet in case of emergencies. Frantically I leapt to my feet and dashed to the kitchen before the next fart could incapacitate me, grabbed the bottle of Beano, and downed its entire contents. An eternity seemed to elapse as I stood there waiting to see if this would do the trick. I farted one last time--a high-pitched, harmless fart that sounded similar to David Lee Roth getting kneed in the balls--and drew a long sigh of relief. The nightmare was over.
I still make my Beantastic Bean Surprise every now and then, but I never eat it all at one time--and I always keep a very large bottle of Beano handy just in case. And now, whenever someone accidentally farts in my presence and acts embarrassed, I comfort them by saying, "Hey--just be glad Katie Couric didn't come screaming out of your ass in a 1957 Buick Skylark!" Then I wink and throw back my head and laugh heartily, and there's a freeze-frame, and the end credits roll. I don't know why, but since I started doing that hardly anyone ever comes around me anymore. I guess my greatness intimidates them.
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