Butt-Dialing Bastard E-Book

Donald Rump

• Herausgeber: Publisher s21000
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

When Lenny Ludwitz gets a call from a mysterious stranger, he knows that he's totally f*cked. After going round and round with the knucklehead caller, Lenny and his trio of halfwit friends come to the only conclusion that they can--that the call, indeed, is originating from his bunghole. Approximately 2,500 words. WARNING: Do I even need to put down such a disclaimer? I mean, really, if you can't tell by the paragraph above (No, the other one, you dolt!) that this harebrained tale contains foul language and plenty of it, then you have far worse problems than the characters in this book. And don't tell me that I ruined the story by including a fart as a main character. The fart is the story! Without him, it would totally suck balls. Oh, you still think it sucks balls? Well, at least it doesn't suck donkey balls. There, I fixed it. Now, some of these tales have sex in them. Not this one, but it is eluded to strongly. There's also mention of certain objects being shoved up a certain area where the sun don't shine. No, it doesn't mean I'm f*cking gay! Unfortunately, I can't get away without including such backdrops because one or more characters is a fart. They're born in bungholes, and tend to hang out there. Believe me, I'd love to b.s. the whole thing and say that farts only come from a woman's cooch, but hey, that's not even remotely correct. Besides, those are technically queefs not farts, and are far less frequent than you've been led to believe. So if you can get past my social justice warrior inclusion of farts, you'll have a swell time, and may even learn a trick or two (though it is doubtful). Or, you could projectile vomit on your spouse and jump out a window. These things tend to happen when reading a Donald Rump story or two, thus the warning. EXCERPT FROM Butt-Dialing Bastard When Lenny Ludwitz's cellphone began to ring, he knew that he was in hot water. It made the sound of a clucking chicken, a private joke that he shared with his mistress, which elicited smiles and curious eyes from his friends seated around him. “Well, I guess that’s me,” he laughed and answered the phone. “Hello?” “Oh, thank God! I thought I was going to have a heart attack when I woke up all alone. It’s dark in here. And scary. Did I mention that it stinks?” came a nervous voice. Lenny’s smile dropped off his face, as if he were staring into the headlights of an oncoming train. “Who is this?” “What, are you kidding? It’s me, Squeaky. Your son.”

Leseprobe

Also by Donald Rump

20 Common Questions About Farts

A Lonely, Wayward Fart Named Steve (Episode 1)

Date Like A Scoundrel: 10 Things to Tell Ugly Chicks on a First Date

Bottling Farts (English, Spanish, Italian)

Bottling Farts, Inc. Season 1 (Episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)

Captive Audience

Crazy Authors Volume 1

Don't Count Your Chicken Farts Before They Hatch

Finding Floofy (English, Spanish)

Five Reasons Why Dating Hot Chicks is a Bad Idea

Floofed at 40,000 Feet

Four Stinky Stories Vol. 1 (English, Spanish)

Four Stinky Stories Vol. 2 (English, Spanish)

Gastrointestinal Blues

Going Dutch (English, Spanish)

Keeping Wind Laten and the Fate of the World at Bay

Marriage Stinks (English, Spanish, Dutch)

Put Another Fart in the Jukebox, Baby

The $500 Question (English, Spanish)

The Chapped-Ass Critic (English, Spanish)

The Would Be Asstronaut (English, Spanish)

Till Death Do Us Fart (English, Spanish, Dutch)

Weekend Getaway (English, Spanish)

© 2016 Donald Rump. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form (electronic, mechanical or otherwise) without the express written consent of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

E-book layout, formatting and design by Donald Rump.

Image(s) licensed by DepositPhotos.com and © Valentyn Pidburtnyi (#40453309). Fart drawings by Mel Casipit.

Background texture © Pixabay and used in accordance with the public domain license(s) described on the following page:https://pixabay.com/en/sunshine-rays-yellow-background-17828/

Cellphone artwork © Pixabay and used in accordance with the public domain license(s) described on the following page:https://pixabay.com/en/smartphone-cell-phone-149622/

Angry face artwork © Pixabay and used in accordance with the public domain license(s) described on the following page:https://pixabay.com/en/angry-face-emoticon-animations-33059/

First Edition (v1.0)

Published on October 15, 2016

Last updated on July 4, 2018

ISBN-13: 9781536507720

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Donald Rump

Copyright

Dedication

Butt-Dialing Bastard

My Two Cents

Product Description

About the Author

Ad 1: Till Death Do Us Fart

Ad 2: 20 Common Questions About Farts

This book is dedicated to all farts great and small that seem to fuck up everything at the most inopportune times.

Butt-Dialing Bastard

When Lenny Ludwitz's cellphone began to ring, he knew that he was in hot water. It made the sound of a clucking chicken, a private joke that he shared with his mistress, which elicited smiles and curious eyes from his friends seated around him. “Well, I guess that’s me,” he laughed and answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Oh, thank God! I thought I was going to have a heart attack when I woke up all alone. It’s dark in here. And scary. Did I mention that it stinks?” came a nervous voice.

Lenny’s smile dropped off his face, as if he were staring into the headlights of an oncoming train. “Who is this?”

“What, are you kidding? It’s me, Squeaky. Your son.”

Lenny immediately terminated the call and smiled nervously. “Wrong number.”

But his three close friends seated around the table knew better. There had been rumblings of a new mistress but Lenny declined to talk about it, and fortunately he’d managed to keep the whole thing out of the public eye. Likely she was the reason why his wife Olga, a 300-pound Broom Hilda look-alike from Eastern Europe, had asked for a divorce.

“Do you want to talk about it?” said Kathy Kent, a 35-year-old business professional who started out as his secretary and quickly climbed the corporate ladder, rising above even his pay grade.

It had been a while since discussion returned to his unhappy marriage, but Lenny was still reluctant to talk about it, even though he couldn’t field a better audience to get such a matter off his chest.

Suddenly the phone rang again.

Lenny looked around and hesitated.

“Do you want me to answer it?” said his best friend Miles Mogul, a dark-haired, well-built lady charmer who was once again out of a job.

“No, I’ve got this,” said Lenny.

“You sure?”

Clearly Lenny Ludwitz was not. He’d given the phone to his mistress Charlene Chambers, which they used to coordinate meeting places, and occasionally, phone sex. But how did it get into the hands of this weirdo claiming to be his son?

“Yeah, what?” Lenny answered the phone, pulling a wad of underwear from his crack.

“That’s kind of rude, don’t you think? I’m sitting here all alone in this dark, stinky place pouring my heart out and you hang up on me?” came the same erratic voice.

“So what do you want, Stinky?”

“Squeaky.”

“Fine, Squeaky.”

“His name his Squeaky?” Miles laughed, causing the others to crack a smile as well.

“So, what do you want?” Lenny glared at Miles and gestured to him to keep it shut.

“What, are you kidding me? I want you to get me the hell out of here!” said Squeaky.

“Out of where?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“How did you get this number, anyways?”

“It’s here, in this phone.”

“Okay, so how did you get the phone?”

“It was just lying here, discarded.”

The words sent a chill down Lenny’s spine. Had Charlene been murdered? And was this moron responsible for it? Pain shot through Lenny’s abdomen, burning all the way out his bunghole. He’d had a wild night, no doubt, and good thing for him the alcohol erased most of the lewd memories. “So is this a shakedown? What do you want, cash? I don’t have a lot of money, you know.”

“Huh?”

“What have you done with Charlene? Is she still alive?” Lenny began to stand, but his throbbing abdomen forced him back to his chair.

“Who in the fuck’s Charlene?” Squeaky said so loud that the others could hear.

“Yeah, who’s Charlene?” said Buster Bent, Lenny’s long time mentor who was still going strong at age seventy and had no intention of retiring.

“That’s it. I’m calling the police,” said Lenny.

“Good, call the police. Just get me out of this filthy place. As long as you do right by me pops, that’s all that matters.”

“I’m not your father!” Lenny ended the call and nearly threw the phone across the dining room.

Lenny’s three friends sat in stunned silence, picking at their salads. Between the three of them they thought they knew everything about Lenny. But a son? And certainly Charlene’s name had never crossed his lips.

Kathy reached over and grabbed his hands. “Can we talk about this? We’re your friends, Lenny, and we love you. If you’re in some kind of trouble...”

“I’m not.” Lenny pulled his hands away. “It’s just some prank caller. I have no idea how he got Charlene’s phone.”

“Who’s Charlene?” Miles looked him dead in the eye, raising an eyebrow. Once upon a time, the two of them shared everything. But these days, much of Lenny’s comings and goings remained a mystery, and their Sunday gatherings to watch Tampa Bay lose was reduced to once a month, if that.

If anyone should know about Charlene, it should be him. He was jobless--clearly he had enough time. An explanation was in order, whether Lenny liked it or not.

“Yes, Charlene.” Lenny fidgeted with his hands.

Right on cue, his phone began to ring.

“Saved by the bell,” old man Buster cut in, hoping to crack a smile on one of their somber faces. But no one smiled, let alone laughed.

“I told you, I’m not your fucking father!” Lenny answered the phone.

“Oh yeah? Well I guess I just got belted out the back end of an Oldsmobile,” said Squeaky. “But honestly I don’t care if you believe me. I just need your help.”

“Help?” Pain shot through Lenny’s lower extremities. “You can help by not calling again.” He ended the call.

Immediately Squeaky called back.

“I will call the police, I swear! And I’ll tell them what you did to Charlene,” Lenny screamed.

“Fine. Tell them whatever the fuck you want. I’ll just call someone else on the list.” Squeaky hung up.

Lenny looked at the phone, stunned.

“So what was all that about?” said Miles.

“I’m not sure, but he hung up. Hopefully he won’t bother me again.” Lenny’s eyes darted around the room. “I need to find Charlene.” He began to stand, but the pain was too great. He winced, grunting as quietly as he could to mask the throbbing pain, and plopped back down in his chair.

“My goodness, are you all right?” said Kathy. “Are you having a heart attack?”

Though a fart attack would have been closer to the mark.

“Are you feeling a tightness in your chest? Right here in the middle?” Kathy indicated an area in the center of her chest.

“No, no...” Lenny waved it off.

It was more like a throbbing in the deep recesses of his anal cavity. Clearly he did not want to mention that, especially considering all of the depraved acts that his dominatrix Charlene demanded of him, which were wiped clean by alcohol.

“I’m fine, really,” he tried to reassure them.

“You don’t look fine. I’m going to call an ambulance,” said Kathy.

“No, absolutely not!” He tried to snatch Kathy’s cellphone out of her hands. “If you want me to talk about it, I will. Just...give me a minute...”

Suddenly Kathy’s phone began to ring. Her “Let’s get naughty...” ringtone echoed through the restaurant, causing many at nearby tables to gawk at her. “I told you not to call me on this phone, Priscilla,” she whispered and turned away from the table.

“Oh, hello?” came an unfamiliar voice.

“Who is this?” Kathy sat up straight in her chair.

“Oh, it’s Lenny’s little guy, Squeaky.”

“Squeaky?” She looked at Lenny, horrified.

“How in the hell did he get your number?” said Lenny.

“And who’s Priscilla?” Miles piped up.

Kathy shrugged, and then put the cellphone back against her ear. “So what can I do for you, Squeaky?”

“Get me out of here!” he replied.

“Ok, you’ve got to be more specific than that. Tell me about your surroundings.”

“Well, it’s dark.”

“Ok.”

“And stinky.”

“Right...”

Clearly this wasn’t going anywhere, prompting Kathy to roll her eyes. “Is Priscilla there with you?”

“Uh...I don’t know any Priscilla,” said Squeaky.

“Ok, how about Charlene?”

“Did Lenny put you up to this? I already told him, I don’t know any broad named Charlene.”

“Is anyone with you?”

“Well, uh...I don’t know...” There was some static and muffled sounds as he searched around. “No, it doesn’t look like it. But it’s really dark. Hello, out there?” His voice echoed, but no one answered. “Nope.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Oh, you mean about his douchebag friend Miles? Only that Lenny knows you banged him at the last Christmas party. No wonder he found a new mistress.”

“What?!”

“Oops. Did I say something I shouldn’t have?”

“Fuck you, Squeaky!” Kathy hung up the phone. “And you!” She pointed to Miles. “Why did you tell him about the Christmas party?”

“What about the Christmas party?” Miles said calmly, a slight smile creeping onto his face.

“Oh, please. Everyone knows about the Christmas party,” said Buster.

“Wait a minute. What about the Christmas party?” said Lenny.

“Don’t tell me that you didn’t know.” Buster looked at Miles, then Kathy.

“I had my suspicions, but...” Lenny gazed at Kathy, nearly in tears. “I never thought she’d bang some loser like Miles.”

“Hey!” Miles protested.

Kathy’s cellphone rang. “What?!” she answered it.

“So do you think you could help out a lowly little guy like me from this hell hole?” said Squeaky.

“Fuck off!” she immediately ended the call.

Lenny’s cellphone rang. “Eat shit!” he shouted into the phone and immediately hung up.

Abruptly Miles’ phone rang.

“Hey, honey. You wouldn’t believe the crazy shit that’s going down right now,” Miles let out a good chuckle.

“Yeah, great. I tell you, this place is shittier than Motel 6, and those fuckers definitely didn’t leave a light on for me.”

Miles nearly fell off his chair. “Who is this?”

“It’s Lenny’s boy, Squeaky.”

“Squeaky?”

Suddenly all the eyes were on him.

“Well, you’re certainly the man of the hour, Squeaky. How did you get this number?”

“Well it’s right here, in this phone.”

Lenny gasped, the pain rocketing through him.

“Are you all right?” Kathy put her hand on his shoulder.

“No, I’m fine. Really.” Lenny swatted her hand away.

“Ok, Squeaky. How do you know Delilah? Are you a neighbor or something and are borrowing her phone?”

“Delilah? Who the fuck is Delilah? Man, you people are all kinds of fucked. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call someone else.” Squeaky hung up.

“No, wait!” said Miles but it was too late.

Suddenly Buster’s cellphone rang. “Not now, Anastasia. I have a crisis on my hands.”

“No, it’s me, Squeaky,” came a nervous voice that he’d never heard before.

“Squeaky?”

“What the fuck?” said Lenny.

“What did you do with Anastasia?” said Buster.

“Oh, my God. You people are all fucking crazy,” said Squeaky. “I wouldn’t have called if I weren’t desperate. I guess I’ll call someone else on this list.”

“No, I’m not letting you off that easily. How did you get Anastasia’s phone?” Buster grumbled.

“And Charlene’s phone,” Lenny chipped in.

“And Priscilla’s,” said Kathy.

Miles scratched his head. “Unless they’re all the same phone, and thus, the same person.”

The four gazed at each other, their faces white as a sheet.

“Hey, you still there, pal?” said Squeaky.

“You’re damn right I’m still here,” Buster responded. “Tell me, how many other numbers are in that cellphone?”

“Oh, God. There must be hundreds of them. I only called you guys because you were the top four she’s called.”

“So is this Anastasia, a.k.a. Delilah, a.k.a. Pricilla, a.k.a. Charlene, some sort of prostitute?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

The three others looked away, cursing their lover’s name under their breaths.

“But there’s something I don’t get. You said that Lenny here is your dad. How do you know that?” Buster asked.

“Hey, I don’t have any illegitimate children! Not like Miles, here.” Lenny’s words were cut short by the pain.

“Well, apparently you do...” Miles fired back.

“Doesn’t everyone know who their parents are?” said Squeaky. “But when Charlene or whatever she said her name was started fucking him with that homemade pink dildo I got trapped back up in there.”

“What a minute...” He put the call on speakerphone. “Are you trying to tell me that...?”

“Yeah, I’m a fart,” said Squeaky.

The four looked at each other, confused.

“Hey, are you still there? Sorry, I thought you knew...” said Squeaky.

“So if you’re a fart there’s only one place you could be...”

All eyes turned back to Lenny.

“No wonder your ass hurts, you dildo!” said Kathy.

“I just want to know how you got an entire cellphone up there and still managed to come into the office and walk down here for lunch, you butt-dialing bastard.” Miles shook his head.

“Oh my God, Anastasia.” Buster stood, noticing a petite blonde walk in the restaurant with a well dressed man on her arm.

“Priscilla!” Kathy stood.

“Delilah, you bitch!” Miles tossed his napkin on the floor.

Lenny could barely stand. His fists clenched, his face a tight mask of pain, he let out a blood-curdling scream. “Look out! Incoming!”

Suddenly the sludge-covered cellphone blasted out of Lenny’s ass, tearing a hole right through his trousers, streaking through the air, and pinging off the side of his mistress’ head.

“Oh my God, Delilah! You killed her!” Miles struck Lenny across the face.

“Anastasia! Don’t worry, I know CPR. I’ll give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation!” said Buster.

“Like hell you will!” Kathy jumped him.

“Ah...it’s great to be back to civilization. I wonder what adventures are in store for me now...” Squeaky the ill-timed air biscuit floated through the dining room that had erupted into an all out brawl.

As he passed by the semi-conscious mistress, she opened her legs. He was swept up by a draft again, this time getting stuck up her twat.

“Welcome to pussy prison, otherwise known as Queen Coochie,” another ghastly fart that had been errantly crammed up there greeted him as he came in.

“Oh, crap.” Squeaky looked around at the plethora of farts that were trapped in there with him. “Can I at least get my phone call before you throw me in the slammer?”

“What do you think this is, a Motel 6?” a nearby fart chortled.

Indeed it would be some time before he got access to a phone again in that pussy of a prison, but at least he was no longer alone.

“You better hope that your father’s cock breaks you out of here,” another laughed.

“I think I have a better chance waiting for a phone,” said Squeaky, provoking more laughter. After awhile, he thought he noticed something. “Wait, is that a tongue?” He caught sight of some wriggling pink flesh entering the chamber. Hey, dad! It’s me!” He hurried towards the tongue.

Before the others could warn him about the creature the tongue was attached to, he hopped down the canine rabbit hole and was never seen again.

THE END

My Two Cents

Don’t tell me it can’t happen because it absolutely could! People cram all sorts of stuff up their backends, never to be seen again. Shoes or high heels? Check. (Just ask any disgruntled housewife.) Lighter? Check. (You never know exactly what’s going to happen when you light an air biscuit on fire.) License plate? Check. (Someone was just a wee bit optimistic in what they thought they could thrust up yonder.)

So a cellphone seems perfectly reasonable, and don’t tell me you sick bastards haven’t tried such a thing before. There’s a reason why it’s called a Birmingham Booty Call.

Anyways, shit happens, and sometimes when you wake up after a night of hard partying, you wind up with your cellphone stuck up your ass. No one’s judging. It just...happens.

But don’t leave it up there too long, like the warning in this book. Sometimes when you fart, you butt dial, and all sorts of egregious things can result. Can you imagine the conversation that might unfold with your mom or dad? The worse part is what someone might glean if the line were left open. Might they hear you fap to all your favorite videos or make calls your favorite 900 number? Hey, that’s how secrets are outed, and before your life goes from bad to worse, hell to hell squared, go to the emergency room and get them to surgically remove that damned phone from your ass!

Surely one of the doctors will make a joke of it, so make sure you’ve armed yourself with a witty response or two. Call your own cellphone and tell the doctor, “I think it’s for you.” That’ll shut up a doctor or cackling nurse real fast.

Hey, you can’t help that there’s a cellphone deep six'd in your ass. It’s in there. The deed’s done. Your personal hotline has now become a punchline. That’s why you’re paying them to mine it out.

If anything, they should be thankful. You’re the one paying their salary. Of all the jobs that have been lost due to the recession, they should feel lucky that they still have theirs. So there’s a Samsung Galaxy stuck up your ass. At least it’s not the new iPhone.

That truly would be a tragedy.

So let them pluck it out, and if they’re still smirking, send them sounds of all the farts that were recorded while your cellphone was nestled in your bunghole. If that isn’t enough, send those dastardly sound bites to their family and friends. And if their grandparents croak while playing back the haunting sounds of your sphincter, well...payback’s a bitch. They shouldn’t have been laughing in the first place.

If you don’t extracted it, your bunghole likely will get infected. And if you have Miley Cyrus as a ringtone, the infection will spread that much faster. Don’t delay. Get that fucker out of there!

Seriously, your life hangs in the balance, man!

If you choose to leave it in as a permanent fixture, be ready to live with the consequences. The battery can only hold a charge for so long, and last I knew none of the latest cellphones run on natural gas. Any novelty of having a butt phone will wear off quickly, and you’ll be left with a hunk of metal in your ass.

Eventually, you’ll have to lay a log, so the end result is inevitable--one way or another, that thing’s going to have to come out. You can take charge of the situation or be overcome by events. The choice is up to you.

Hey, you’re not Darth Vader, and who knows if he has a communicator in his anus. Might it have improved the operations of the Death Star? Who knows? But the Lord of Sith you are not. You’re just some guy (or gal) with a cellphone stuck up your ass, and you certainly don’t want a mechanical malfunction to happen that sets your ass ablaze.

Think, my friend, think!

As always, don’t try any of this shit at home, and if you keep getting calls and it sounds like the cellphone is nearby but you just can’t locate it, run don’t walk to the nearest hospital. And if they’re full, any old jackhammer or oil drill will do.

Your friend,

Donald Rump

Product Description

When Lenny Ludwitz gets a call from a mysterious stranger, he knows that he’s totally f*cked. After going round and round with the knucklehead caller, Lenny and his trio of halfwit friends come to the only conclusion that they can--that the call, indeed, is originating from his bunghole.

Approximately 2,500 words.

WARNING: Do I even need to put down such a disclaimer? I mean, really, if you can’t tell by the paragraph above (No, the other one, you dolt!) that this harebrained tale contains foul language and plenty of it, then you have far worse problems than the characters in this book. And don’t tell me that I ruined the story by including a fart as a main character. The fart is the story! Without him, it would totally suck balls.

Oh, you still think it sucks balls? Well, at least it doesn’t suck donkey balls.

There, I fixed it.

Now, some of these tales have sex in them. Not this one, but it is eluded to strongly. There’s also mention of certain objects being shoved up a certain area where the sun don’t shine. No, it doesn’t mean I’m f*cking gay! Unfortunately, I can’t get away without including such backdrops because one or more characters is a fart. They’re born in bungholes, and tend to hang out there. Believe me, I’d love to b.s. the whole thing and say that farts only come from a woman’s cooch, but hey, that’s not even remotely correct. Besides, those are technically queefs not farts, and are far less frequent than you’ve been led to believe.

So if you can get past my social justice warrior inclusion of farts, you’ll have a swell time, and may even learn a trick or two (though it is doubtful). Or, you could projectile vomit on your spouse and jump out a window. These things tend to happen when reading a Donald Rump story or two, thus the warning.

KEYWORDS: humor, humorous, comedy, farts, fart fiction, fun, gas

About the Author

When he's not writing about old, crusty farts, Donald Rump writes about actual farts—the stinkier the better. He is also an advocate of the No Fart Left Behind program and marriage equality for all gaseous entities great and small. Apparently, he also gives dating advice.

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