Finding Floofy E-Book

Donald Rump

• Herausgeber: Publisher s21000
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

When a man falls head over heels for a murderous fart, he has difficulty coping with her mysterious departure. Was it something he said? Something he did? Was his penis too small? None of it makes any sense. "I will find you my darling Floofy, even if it's the last thing I do!" For mature (and not so mature) audiences. Approximately 4,400 words in all.

Leseprobe

Also by Donald Rump

20 Common Questions About Farts

A Lonely, Wayward Fart Named Steve (Episode 1)

Bottling Farts (English, Spanish, Italian)

Bottling Farts, Inc. (Episode 1, 2, 3, 4, 5)

Captive Audience

Crazy Authors Volume 1

Finding Floofy (English, Spanish)

Five Reasons Why Dating Hot Chicks is a Bad Idea

Four Stinky Stories Vol. 1 (English, Spanish)

Four Stinky Stories Vol. 2 (English, Spanish)

Gastrointestinal Blues

Going Dutch (English, Spanish)

Marriage Stinks (English, Spanish)

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)

© 2014 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.

Cover art © Larisa Koshkina. Fart drawings by Mel Casipit and used in accordance with the public domain license found at the following page:

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=31461&picture=bright-background-with-heart

First Edition (v1.2)

Published on January 26, 2014

Last updated on May 1, 2016

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Donald Rump

Copyright

Dedication

Finding Floofy

My Two Cents

About the Author

Finding Floofy

I still remember the first time I met you. I’d fallen from grace, much like I have now. In my pit of despair, you raised me up. Made me laugh, cry. That warm bottle of Killian’s Red smashed over my head never tasted better. Oh sweet, sweet memories, take me back to the song of yesterday...

My life had been empty till you came along. I was drinking my way towards a slow death, my Catholic upbringing preventing me from ending it any sooner. The breakup with my fiancé of twelve years shattered me, and felt like a divorce and a funeral rolled into one. For the first time in a long while, I felt vulnerable and alone. How could I ever trust another soul again?

Ten long, miserable years I’d spent earning a doctorate degree. “It will make you proud, and give you a new sense of purpose and self-worth,” my mother told me. While it helped secure me a higher paying job, it also brought with it a mountain of debt. “One day you’ll look back on this and thank me for pushing you so hard,” my mother rambled on. “A good education completes you on the most honorable of levels.”

Who was I to argue? She was my mom after all, and wanted the best things for me in life. But the only thing it completed was her lofty expectations of me. Inside, I was very much the same lonely, confused child that I’d always been, and didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life yet.

“My son’s a doctor!” my parents shouted in every ear that would listen. But in reality, I was an expert in Turfgrass Management, and it did little to fill me.

“Turfgrass, eh? What’s that?” said a drunken fool with a red face, bad haircut and a golden nametag that read ‘Squiggy.’ He set down his bottle and burped. “By chance are you referring to something of the female persuasion?”

“No, not at all.” I was sorry that I had opened my mouth. People always confused my profession with their own devilish ideas. I literally grew grass, which kept me employed by the local golf courses and occasionally earned me a trip to FedEx Field, where I could watch the home games for free. But it was just one of a series of dull highlights that I called my life. One evening at the bar provided more highlights than my previous year of solitary drudgework.

“So you grow grass, hmm?” Squiggy pulled up a stool next to me.

“That’s only part of what I do. Mostly I manage it,” I replied.

“Oh, so you’re a dealer, eh? I see where you’re going with this. Do you grow any of the good stuff?”

“Sure, I suppose.”

“The really, really good stuff?” He winked.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” I took a sip of my warm beer.

“You know, the funny kind—the kind you smoke! I’m always on the lookout for some good grass.” He swatted a young lady’s behind as she passed by.

“Hey!” The blonde waitress turned.

“Pardon my friend’s lewd behavior. He just got out of prison and hasn’t seen a real woman in years.” He pointed in my direction. “He was in solitary so long that he developed a case of involuntary muscle fasciculations, which causes him to smack people from time-to-time. He’s harmless, really, and didn’t mean any offense.”

“Creep!” She glared at me and walked away.

“So how much do you charge per bag?” The drunken fool turned back to me, nursing his bottle of Coors Light.

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea about me. I’m not a drug dealer, I’m in the landscaping business,” I said.

“Just give me a price!” He pounded his fist on the table, nearly spilling my beer. “Do you sell it by the ounce? The bushel? Acre?” He leaned forward. “And if you want a piece of that action, I can hook you up. A little weed goes a long way,” he laughed and polished off his beer.

“I’m afraid what I do is far less exciting than it seems. Do you remember all of those days when you were a teenager, mowing the lawn in the hot, summer sun?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Essentially that’s what I do. I study soil and treat landscapes. And when I have free time, I analyze fertilizer and new seeds on the market and frequently patch up artificial turf for NFL stadiums, both indoors and out.”

“Wow, you work for the NFL? I bet you sell lots of weed there!” Squiggy’s heart raced.

“No, they pay me to repair turf and dispose of it.”

“So what do you do with all of that excess weed?”

“Most of the time it gets dumped in a landfill or reused as fertilizer.” I took another sip of my beer and burped back.

“Seriously? You don’t stash any of it for yourself?”

“Not a single blade of grass.”

“Can you believe this guy?” Squiggy accosted the waitress on her way back. “He’s in the business of throwing out perfectly good weed!”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” The blonde punched me in the jaw, knocking me off the stool.

I fell on the floor, my head bouncing off the dingy tile. “Weeds, not weed. It’s not the same thing.” I rubbed my noggin. For a short, petite twenty-something-year-old, she packed dynamite in her fists.

“Pathetic,” Squiggy snorted. “You just got your ass kicked by a girl.” He smacked her on the ass again.

“All right, that’s enough!” She tossed her tray like a Frisbee.

“Don’t look at me. It was that squirrely-eyed bastard on the floor!” He burped again.

“Then let this be a lesson to you. Second degree black belt, Taekwondo.” She assumed the stance. “This is called Chiko Chagi, otherwise known as the Axe Kick.” She swung her leg up, nearly touching her nose to her knee, and then thrust it down, nailing me between the legs with the heel of her foot.

“Ahh!!!” I writhed in pain.

“What did you call that again?” Squiggy asked.

“The Axe Kick.” She demonstrated again, kicking my poor, throbbing testicles to the other side of the galaxy. “And don’t forget your beer, sir.” She smashed the half-empty bottle of Killian’s Red over my head.

“Nice meeting you, pal. Now I’ve got some patchwork to do of my own.” He put his arm around the waitress and turned.

No one understood my lot in life, least of all me. I grew things that were meant to be walked all over and torn to shreds. By cultivating the perfect, living doormat, I had become one myself. This only led to more drinking and emptiness inside. No wonder I felt like ending it all.

But then you came along.

Yes, you. Wonderful you!

When I was down and licking scum off the bar floor, you blew through. Indeed I was not ready. How could any of us be? The first person that caught a whiff of you promptly vomited and plugged his nose, but it smelled like perfume to me. Predictably, I was blamed.

“You dirty dog.” The drunken lunatic wiped the corner of his mouth and offered his snot rag to the Kung Fu waitress he’d puked on. “I know it was you, you weed-whacking little bastard. It’s time to meet your maker!” He cracked his knuckles and loomed over me, ready to rip me limb-from-limb.

But you would have none of it. Nothing wicked would befall me that night, your pungent aroma made sure of it.

Squiggy fell to one knee, not sure what had entered his lungs. “I can’t breathe!” he choked. “Quick, grab me another beer!” But when one finally arrived, it was too late. His heart had stopped, and from this point forward I knew that there was no getting over you.

When I caught your smile hidden amidst the curling smoke of the bar, I knew this wouldn’t be a conventional relationship, but something far more special. It was a brave moment, and I was ready to leave the woeful weeds behind. “Thanks for saving me.” I lay starry-eyed on the floor.

Saved me you did, over and over again. Struck down all of those who meant to do me harm, and placed a much-needed kiss on my weather-beaten lips. “Floofy,” your name came to me like a whisper in the wind. “I think I love you.”

I rose to my feet and brushed myself off, a bold, new confidence flowing through my veins.

The blonde waitress trembled as I stepped over the corpse. “You did this!” She pointed.

“We did this.” I closed my eyes and took in the rabid scent. Although I could not see her, I knew Floofy was standing right next to me. “Shall we?” I offered an arm and escorted her out the door. I hailed a cab and fled the scene just as the police arrived. Even though I had done nothing wrong, it felt good to finally escape that dreary corner of my life.

The darkness was now behind me. Only the best days lie ahead, or so it seemed...

* * *

Love is blind, or so they say. But in my case, nothing could be truer. Though deeply felt, Floofy was invisible. Her musky scent was the best indication that she was near. Sometimes she brushed by me, tickling the hairs on the back of my neck. What a beauty she was to behold! A breath of fresh air that was sorely needed.

She took me places that I never knew existed, beyond the fungus of thought and decay of yesterday. It was the most intimate of experiences—spiritual sex flowing freely from one corner of my mind to the other. You were the ghost inside this empty machine, felt but not seen, the shadow that gives the light meaning. There was so much that I wanted to show you, and show you I did.

Do you remember all of those magical moments in the movie theatre, my dear? How about that time when you thought I was looking too closely at Jennifer Lawrence in American Hustle and jumped down my throat, causing me to vomit on the patron seated next to me? Or that crazy squirrel in The Nut Job that I said looked like you? I still don’t know how I arrived in the hospital or how that box of Raisinets got crammed up my back end. And how about all of those people that you sent running out of the auditorium? It added excitement to an otherwise dull movie and prompted me to scream along with them. Wherever you went, you cast a long shadow, and those that couldn’t hang with you didn’t deserve your blessed company.

What about all of those deep conversations that we had at the restaurant? The staff at Mortons probably thought I was insane babbling on and on, seemingly to thin air. But they couldn’t see you for what you were. I’m crazy for you, dear. Absolutely nuts! That’s all that matters, not the failing world around us.

And what about the hostess at Rio Grande? I was surprised that she wasn’t more sympathetic. It is a Mexican restaurant, after all. Of all the people in the world, she should have understood what I was getting at when I asked for a table for two and suggested that she pull out the chair for my elusive companion. That’s her job—to be as accommodating as possible. Did you really get lost with all of the other odors from the kitchen or the countless constipated clients? It’s hard to fathom such a thing! How can anyone miss you, my darling? You’re absolutely striking, and at times, overwhelming.

That was the first day that I sensed an air of vulnerability. If they could not detect you, might I also follow suit?

“Don’t think such wicked thoughts.” I tried to cast aside my fears. But the doubt lingered, and deep in my heart I knew that I would have to confront it one day. How many more times would I be able to take you to the zoo before you got lost in the crowd watching the monkeys throw excrement at each other? Could the same happen at the ice rink or bowling alley? What if we went on a cruise and you got lost at sea? If you’d seen Titanic you’d understand. Hopefully my fart would go on...

Every time I went out I was taking a risk, a risk that weighed heavier with each passing day. “How can I hold onto you, my darling?” I asked one night. “I can’t stand the thought of losing you. I love you, Floofy. I truly do.”

When no answer came, I felt like the tiniest particle in the universe, like a Kentucky bluegrass seedling trying to find fertile soil to crawl under. I needed you, especially now. I yearned for your warmth and comfort.

But had I really expected an answer? It was never easy getting a straight answer out of you. Perhaps it was the first sign of the cracks in our relationship. You were here, but only for a while longer.

Then one morning I woke up and you were gone. Truly gone! I could not find a trace of you in the house or nearby streets. You’d vanished. Disappeared. Hopefully it wasn’t for all times.

That night I wept, on and on till the sun rose the following morning. But even an ocean of tears could not bring you back to me. You’d slipped away, into the great unknown. I’d lost you. Somehow, someway, I did. I was an empty vessel left to brave the raging sea. I’d lost my sense of direction, pride and hope, and doubted that I’d ever see you again. “Oh why, Floofy, why?!” Great rivers spilled from my eyes.

Once I stopped crying, I made a promise, a pledge that I would find you again, no matter what the cost. “We’ll be together once more, my darling Floofy. You are my one and only love!”

And so I set out, to find that which was lost to me and implore it to return. Never did it cross my mind that you’d left on her own accord or didn’t want to see me. There was another explanation for this. There had to be!

“What nonsense,” I said aloud, causing everyone in the library to turn and look at me. “We were in love, I tell you. Love! Don’t you get that?”

“Get what?” An old man looked up from a nearby table.

“To suggest that I had something to do with her disappearance is asinine! Up until that fateful day, we were inseparable. She’d never think of leaving me. Never!”

“Whatever you say, pal.” He stuck his nose back in his book.

“There’s only one explanation for this, isn’t there?” I grabbed his book and tossed it aside. “Floofy wouldn’t leave on her own accord...unless she were forced to.”

“Who’s Floofy?” The old man cowered.

“Don’t you hear what I’m saying? She was taken from me. Ripped from my tender, loving arms. Kidnapped! I can hear her screams right now just thinking about it. Whoever did this, be warned! I’ll wrestle with the devil himself just to bring her back. Mark my words!”

“Swell! Now could you get off of my lap? I can’t feel my legs,” the old man grumbled.

Like a dog, I needed to catch her scent. I went back to all of our favorite places, every last cheap motel and dollar movie theatre, but she was nowhere to be found. Not a trace of her otherworldly muskiness lingered. Was she truly gone? Perhaps I had done a poor job satisfying her needs. Was my penis too small? Technique lacking? Balls a whit smaller than my pumpkin-sized colleagues? And if I did not see her again, was there any point in going on?

I soldiered on, adamant that I would not let anything slow my search, much less myself. Floofy was in danger; I knew it. Had I forgotten such a thing? Evil lurks in the hearts of desperate, lonely men. What unspeakable horrors awaited Floofy if I didn’t find her soon? Scores of sick, demented perverts roam the earth, far more vile than doctors with worthless degrees in glorified lawn repair. I had to be strong for her if I had any hope of smelling her sweet scent again.

On and on I marched, no longer scared of making a fool of myself with total strangers on the street. “Excuse me. Have you seen my darling Floofy?” I asked a woman with curly, brown hair and wire rim glasses at the subway terminal.

“I don’t know. What does she look like?” she replied.

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean you’re not sure?”

“Well, the truth is I’ve only smelt her. She kind of smells like this.” I unzipped my backpack and retrieved a gray carton that smelled like rotten eggs. “And a little bit of this.” I put a wad of used toilet paper under her nose. “And this.” I uncorked a flask of sewer water and let it do the talking. “So what do you say? Do you think you know her?”

The lady stared straight ahead, but did not say anything.

“Come on, don’t hold back. I can take bad news if that’s the case. Any news is better than no news.”

Still nothing.

“Hmm...that sewer water really seems to be jogging your memory. Are you sure you don’t know something?” I patted her on the shoulder. “Uh, hello?” I waved a hand in front of her face.

Without a word she keeled over, the stench too much to bear.

“What did you do to her?” A lady stopped dead in her tracks.

“Nothing, I-“

“Murderer!” another person screamed. “Someone call the police!”

With a heavy heart, I hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. Everywhere I went trouble followed, but it sure beat the heck out of watching grass grow. Everything would be fine once I got to the bottom of this. Surely it couldn’t get any worse.

Although it was difficult to convey my situation from time to time, I did not stop until I searched every outhouse, hen house and freestanding structure in all of Metropolitan D.C. Still, Floofy remained elusive. “Perhaps she isn’t here at all, but in another city altogether,” I mumbled to the cashier and handed her a crisp five-dollar bill.

“Excuse me?” said the cashier.

“That’s it! Hopefully they didn’t force her to become a sex slave and work in snuff films.” I gulped down my blazing hot frappuccino.

“Say what?!”

“That’s ok, honey. Keep the change. I’ve got a plane to catch!” I rushed out the door.

“But you’re sixty-seven cents short!” The cashier chased after me.

And so my adventure began, from Washington to Van Nuys, Los Angeles to San Francisco, then Santa Barbara, Seattle, and back over to Boston, New York City and Philadelphia. But I was no closer to finding Floofy. Every new city brought the same response. No one knew anything, and they couldn’t believe that I’d wasted my time tracking you down.

But I did not care what they or anyone else thought. The financial implications for this merry jaunt across the U.S. were mine to bear and meant little. I’d made a fortune selling dirt and grass to golf courses around the world. What difference did it make if I blew through a few months of earnings? I’d make it all back, anyways. I always did.

I extended my search to places outside of the U.S., places like Paris, London, Prague, Bucharest, Amsterdam and even the Vatican. “If the Russian mafia got a hold of her, she could be anywhere in Eastern Europe or along the Siberian railway,” I gasped. I even checked in with some of my international customers, pledging any type of grass they wanted—illegal or otherwise—and a life’s worth of my services if they provided me with information that led to finding my abducted love.

Yet I still came up empty.

I commandeered a ship out of New Foundland, jumped in a submersible, and went down to Titanic, a romantic getaway that I had promised Floofy ages ago but was now taking alone. For some reason I’d hoped she’d be down there along with the doomed ocean liner and Celine Dion’s 100-piece orchestra, but there was nothing but seaweed and shellfish and I wasn’t planning on opening a sushi bar anytime soon.

I visited the Arctic, then the Antarctic. Even the penguins scoffed at me. “Nope, no Floofy here.”

I scaled Mount Everest, swam the English Channel, ran butt-naked across the African basin, cruised the Panama Canal and peeked inside the active volcanoes of Mauna Loa and Reykjavík, but I was still no closer to finding her. At last I broke down. “I failed you!” I cried. “Please give me a sign—anything—just to know that you’re alive!”

The long flight from India was tiring, but did not faze me. There, a man told me that he had information for me if I successfully charmed his pet python. When I realized that he was speaking figuratively and alluding to something in his pants, I bought a real python from a vendor a few doors down and stuck it down his trousers. That would be the last time anyone took advantage of me, and I quickly boarded a plane and headed home for a much-needed holiday.

At this point, my mind began to unravel. Most likely, there would be no finding Floofy. Too much time had passed. If something had happened, it had already played out. There was little that I could do but sit and pray.

When I finally snapped out of it, I found that I was still on the plane, sandwiched between two overweight ladies from Arkansas, whose fat oozed over me as if I were being devoured by the blob. Though inundated by twin towers of stinky, swollen flesh, I never felt more alone as I did then. I could not hear their incessant chatter, only the sound of the plane streaking through the sky and my frequent, erratic thoughts. People laughed, drank cocktails, and watched the in-flight movie, but none of it registered. The growing void in my heart distanced me from the real world. Only Floofy could reel me back in.

As I peered out the window, I caught a familiar sight. Hidden in a tuft of clouds, I could barely make out her angelic face. Her cheeks were large and puffy like the clouds, her fingers long and slender. “Floofy? Is that you?” I rubbed my eyes and looked again. She was pink like the fading sun with a warm smile that extended into the horizon. “Please, don’t go!” I held out my hand, but she could not hear me. Though she was right next to me, she was still a world away.

I got out of the seat and walked down the aisle. The clouds that blanketed her were now fading into the distance. I could not let her go, would not let her go. Such a thing would unwind the very fabric of me. Here we were, looking into each other’s eyes without any hope of reunion as we slowly drifted apart.

Amazingly, I was not without conviction. Better things were in store for me, I knew it. God would not put something in my life that I could not handle or overcome. Rather than fight to get a loved one back into my life, perhaps it was time to let go and reflect upon the good times with an open heart rather pick at the wounds placed upon it. Life goes on. It’s inevitable. Eventually, Floofy moved on as well. I had no choice but to accept fate or cast myself into a dark chasm from which I would not recover.

“Goodbye!” I leaned against the door and waved.

If there was ever an emergency, it was now. When the emergency door flew open and I was sucked into the spacious skies, I knew my journey had come to an end.

But what about Floofy?

In this moment, I was very much alone. Had the vision in the clouds just been a mirage? Or was it an ominous swan song of my departure from this world?

“Goodbye, Floofy,” I cried. “I tried, I really did. Please believe me and remember that I will always love you. You’re the special one in my life that got away. If I did anything to hurt you, please forgive me. I just wanted to be with you, in this moment most of all. I can only hope that I will see you one day, in this life or the next.”

As I browned my pants for what was about to come, I smelled her once again. “Floofy, is that you?” I exclaimed. I looked around, and although I could not see her, I could feel her presence embrace me. Forced out by my loss of bodily functions, the search for Floofy was finally over. Even in my darkest hour, she had been with me every step of the way.

“I love you, Floofy. Now bring on the future, whatever it may be.” I held her close and gently closed my eyes.

THE END.

My Two Cents

I’m Donald Rump, and as you know by now, I love farts; so much so, that I wrote a story about a man’s undying love for a fart that causes him to jump from a plane. Essentially, it’s a love letter to a fart, and I absolutely love how it all came together.

No, seriously.

Unfortunately, there’s no crazy story to tell about the production of this short. I’d been telling myself for some time that I needed to write Finding Floofy. I already worked out the title ahead of time (these things tend to pop in my head every now and then), and had the gist of the story: man falls head over heels for a fart, loses track of her, and searches the world over only to realize that the fart of his dreams was with him the entire time. (In his anus, that is!)

What’s not to like about the story?

Before I wrote it, I was a bit apprehensive. Could I do the story justice? And could I really convey a man’s heartache as he goes from town to town in search of the one that got away?

That’s right! I was nervous about writing a damn fart story. Have you ever heard of such a ridiculous thing?

Anyways, I started putting words down--farts, I must have more farts!--and after I muddled through the pros and cons of certain types of turf grass, I finally pushed my heartbroken main character out of the plane.

What about the parachute? He doesn’t need one. He’s a fucking character, and characters don’t get fucking parachutes, at least not in my books. It’s better that none of the passengers have parachutes and they all die horrible deaths.

But what about the plane itself? Isn’t there a logical error there? If someone opens a door on a plane in mid-flight, large objects, including people, will get sucked out. While it’s entirely probable, that’s not what happened. No one else dies on that fateful flight, although I suspect it could make an interesting story in itself.

But of course, I could be lying...

Consider this for a moment: The next story opens with a man jumping from a plane, and the stewardess valiantly tries to keep him onboard, but it’s of no use. He jumps. Sayonara. Splat!

After some fucked up dialogue--which is a grand tradition in Donald Rump stories--other people start seeing things in the clouds and jump from the plane. Perhaps even the stewardess does, too. Eventually everyone sees their own Floofy in the clouds and decides to abandon ship. Such insanity is contagious, until only the pilot is left. And wouldn’t you know it? He jumps, too. The End.

Would it stink? Of course! And I’d certainly find a few places to squeeze in our fetid, favorite friends.

Should it be written? Hell no! Which is all the more reason to write it...

You see, I love writing stories that no one would attempt in their wildest dreams. The more fucked up, the better. It’s not a question of finances. I can already tell you that writing such a story won’t earn $5 in its lifetime. But I’m more curious than anything about whether or not I could pull it off. Could I, in one sitting, come up with a semi-plausible story that arrives at some inane point that I’m not even yet aware of?

Perhaps, perhaps not.

Such intrigue inspires me to write goofy things like Finding Floofy, Part 2.

Be scared. Be very scared...

What concerns me is that most writers only write what they think sells rather than challenging themselves to create something new or simply entertain themselves. Personally, I love shows like South Park. I never know how each 22-minute episode will turn out, and most of the time, it really doesn’t matter. I’m entertained throughout, and since the humor is very off-the-cuff, original, and at times, brilliant, it lends an authenticity that isn’t found in commercial grade programs.

So I tend to like things that are more authentic, even if the plot sucks. It’s not all that different with horror movies. Since most are underfunded, you’re forced to accept bad acting, cheesy sets, etc., just to enjoy the genre. Sometimes you get some real gems in spite of having no money (The Evil Dead, Halloween, even the original Hellraiser to an extent). And there are boobs--lots and lots of unbridled, bare boobs. (How else are they going to sell the movie?)

But unlike film, a piece of literature doesn’t really have a budget. There’s certainly an investment of time and a decent amount of editing, whether you do it yourself or pay someone else, that can drain you of a few bucks (and sanity). But there aren’t any excuses when it comes to our stories. We're simply painting with words--the cheapest thing in the world! So if an author wants to write fart stories, because he or she found them funny growing up (and never quite grew up), they should go for it!

It’s just time, right?

And forget about ruining your literary career. That’s more likely to happen if you try to put out a cheap imitation of something already on the market.

Readers want something original. They want you! But if you’re like everyone else, chasing after trends in the market, they'll likely pass you over for someone (drumroll please...) more original.

But who can resist a great fart story? No one that I know! There’s an audience out there for fart fiction. Trust me, I know, and they're far sicker in the head than you.

So if you love something, set it free, even if it stinks up the house and scares away the neighbors. In time, you’ll be writing your own Finding Floofy. And that love of fiction, that free spirit that’s occasionally goofy, will be with you wherever you go.

Give it a voice, and as always, fart on!

Donald Rump Fart Expert

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.