I Farted

I Farted. It’s something I need you to know. I want you to fathom how hard it was for me to fart and in knowing this, be especially proud and commending that I did it. Despite the fact that it’s a perfectly natural activity and many other people do it without talking about it or sporting an I Farted sticker, or shirt, or other form of “donned” announcement. But how can I help being effusive about it (and not just with the sound that comes out of my gaping hole when I do it)? Because life hangs in the balance when we fart. Literally. It could either stay in our assholes or come out the other end. Either way, the world keeps turning. Oppressive capitalistic and communistic systems still thrive. And Mark Fisher’s belief that human existence will sooner end than the majority rule of capitalism continues to hold true. Unless you’d prefer the “socialist” regime of somewhere like China or Russia, forever damned to dictatorships aimed at “containing” their “People’s Republic.” 

In any case, I Farted. Did you not hear? Do I need to remind you once again? Here, look at the sticker I got making the declarative statement that proves I did it. And it was loud. I think you could hear it throughout the entire polling place where I was standing in line. Unfortunately, I was still in the segment of the queue that was outside, so the odor wasn’t as optimally spread as it would have been inside, in a more confined space. Then everyone would have known I Farted even without the sticker I received for my major efforts. 

I’ve heard there are other places in the world where no one talks about farting. They keep it to themselves and they certainly don’t sport a declarative statement about it. I honestly feel sorry for them. How horrible it must be to not be able to speak candidly about the gas coming out of your backside (and often your front), and especially on an important day like this one. Not that every day isn’t important, and we all fart for different motivations depending on the week, or social media cause. A poll recently conducted by BuzzFeed determined that roughly eighty-five percent of the population planned to fart on November 3rd to help make a change toward a more secure demoncracy. Oops, democracy. There are no demons in America–of course not! Only angels. But even angels are prone to “emitting” angel dust, and we must all do what we can to get the fart out, whether it’s celestial or not. One collective fart that will affect the whole world. For America is the world, no matter what Morrissey says. And when we fart, we fart for a freer existence. Even the freedom to fart itself. 

I think it’s almost my turn to get to one of the booths. Now that I’m looking around, it’s suddenly cleared out quite extensively. I wonder if it was the potency of my fart. I fart better than everyone else, just the way I check a box better than everyone else. And when strangers see me on the street, they stop and stare, as if they know I’m a more valuable proponent of fartocracy, er, democracy than they are. Even if they themselves just farted, they can still seem to tell that their farts paled in comparison to mine. My sticker even seems to shine brighter than everyone else’s when it’s reflected in the sunlight. That’s just how important my particular fart was. Obviously, you must know that by now, but in case you didn’t, I’ve also purchased a vintage 00s-era t-shirt that reads: “Fart or Die!” And surely you must know this is true. If you don’t let out the gas from the bag that is your body, you will die. That’s why other countries just don’t have what America does. They’re honestly not even healthy.

All that repression is not good for anyone. No wonder they’re always pretending to be mad at us. I heard in India and other parts of Asia, you’re not allowed to even think about farting, let alone talk about it with anything resembling candor or pride. So yeah, I would say all these places that don’t speak English or whatever, they’re just jealous they can’t fart as unreservedly as we do.

Anyway, I think that the polling place I’m in actually might have just disintegrated… either that, or it turned out to be a mirage–I guess that would explain the sudden lack of a line. Or maybe it disappeared into oblivion from all my farting. No matter, because in the wake of its dissolution was a box of I Farted stickers, so who cares what’s real or not as long as this one tangible thing announcing my fart remains? The stickers, which I’ve now covered my entire body with, are a souvenir of my struggle to make the U.S. a beacon of the “free world.” And after so much effort to walk out of my house and down the street in the middle of everyone freaking the fuck out about this novel disease (or maybe they’re more freaked out about the total lack of viable job prospects because of the novel disease), I deserve not only this box of stickers, but the ultimate American reward: McDonald’s.

Thus, to celebrate myself and spur further farts, I went inside, sat in a booth I had all to myself and proceeded to eat a Big Mac with fries and a large Coke (because everyone is onto the fact that fountain soda Coke from McDonald’s is the best varietal of the beverage). Despite the smell of my own gas somewhat off-putting me from the meal, I continued to eat with gusto.

A worker wearing a mask came by and decided to clear my tray as I sipped the remaining Coke from my non-biodegradable cup. She looked at me blinkingly, as though not able to process that I had Farted even though she was seeing all of my stickers. So I said, “Oh, by the way, did I mention to you that I Farted today? I just really need you to know how much my fart makes a difference on this Earth that will subjugate me no matter who is in charge. And you can dress it up in blue or red party lines, or even red, white and blue, but really, darling, no one gives a fuck about you. Still, I fucking Farted, okay?”

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