Berettas And Air Biscuits

By now you have probably heard about orders from the Pentagon that heretofore forbid releasing any audible human methane gas in the Afghan battle zone by any U.S. Marine. An audible fart, if you will, may be cause for court marshal.



I suggest the Pentagon revise their existing high fiber and carbohydrate infused battlefield rations to be laced with Beano, or better yet provide alternative and nutritious fart-free food to all troops on the ground.

Seems the high brass believes that infantry farts offend natives who refuse to bathe after spending weeks in 100+ degree heat and hoard dried goat and camel dung to use as cooking fuel for their falafels and shawarmas, which happen to generate copious amounts of human methane as well.

If I were in a battle zone the last thing that would be of concern me is to crop dust the enemy downwind, court marshal be damned.



Bullets good, farts bad.

This brings to mind some of my most memorable farts. The first is embarrassing.

When I was promoted to Senior Vice President I inherited a smokin’ hot young tart secretary named Mary. She was all of 5’1” tall with very long hair and built like a brick shithouse. I mean, home wrecker hot! Mary sure knew how to dress. Whenever we walked down Wacker or Madison together I would see men across the street stop and stare in full attention with amazement. It was fun to see approaching men stare at her, ummm, yumminess.

We had a good relationship. I often acted as her big brother and when she told me about her boyfriends she asked my advice. Mary would take care of my office details, schedule and arranged the best travel accommodations I could ask for. She was a top-notch secretary.

One day I was going up in an empty elevator. I let one go, I had to. When my floor came the door opened and there was Mary. She entered to go three floors up. Then I realized I dusted her. Poor thing was encased in a moving, putrid canister.

When she came back down all she could say was, how COULD YOU?” I apologized.

My best fart ever happened in my boss’s office. He was not only my boss as Executive VP Creative Director, he was my very close friend.

One morning I left my office (we all had doors and windows back then, few cubicles) to ask him a question in his corner office next to mine. A meeting was taking place at his conference table. At the time most in the department were men (something H.R. criticized him for).

As I looked in and saw the meeting I turned away when he said, “c’mon in, were through. In the room were six other men, many of them our subordinates. As I entered one rather rotund young gent leaned over in his chair and let one audibly loud fart. Not unusual or rude at the time because we were men. It was a badge of honor to dust a meeting room but to allow one’s self to be identified was not the class I was accustomed to.

At that very moment I dropped a silent, but very deadly air biscuit. As it wafted over the conference table and hit the poor bastard’s olfactory senses they all looked at Paulie, yelled Jayzyz Krise and bolted out of Larry’s office to avoid the aroma of my Chanel #2.


From that day on, young Paulie became a legend in the office for having let go of the most gawdawful gas, an honor I had gladly handed off to a young exec.

Carry on.