Marriage Stinks E-Book

Donald Rump

• Herausgeber: Publisher s21000
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Mackelroy Puggsley thought he'd heard it all until an odd man named Bilby Bloob shows up in his lobby one morning. When Bilby demands a marriage license for his gassy wife, the old man puts his foot down. Sure, it's one thing to marry your high school sweetheart, but a fart? Who in the world marries a fart?
"Well I'm not going anywhere until you give us a marriage license," Bilby insists.
"Is that so?" Mackelroy cracks his knuckles.
Marriage Stinks is a work of fart fiction, approximately 3,600 words in length.

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

Fart Lover Supreme

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)

Four Stinky Stories Vol. 3

Four Stinky Stories Vol. 4

Gastrointestinal Blues

Going Dutch (English, Spanish)

Keeping Wind Laten and the Fate of the World at Bay

Marriage Stinks (English, Spanish, Dutch)

Pedo Flambé

Put Another Fart in the Jukebox, Baby

The $500 Question (English, Spanish)

The Gay Assteroid

The Chapped-Ass Critic (English, Spanish)

The Hairiest Butt

The Would Be Asstronaut (English, Spanish)

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

Weekend Getaway (English, Spanish)

© 2013 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 © Alex Pretelt (#25599197). Fart drawings by Mel Casipit.

First Edition (v1.1)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Donald Rump

Copyright

Dedication

Marriage Stinks

My Two Cents

Product Description

About the Author

Ad 1: Till Death Do Us Fart

Ad 2: 20 Common Questions About Farts

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my brother Chris, who is contemplating marriage and loves nice, big, juicy farts.

Marriage Stinks

“Hey there, buddy.” A middle-aged man with thick, unkempt sideburns stepped up to the counter. He wore a coffee-colored t-shirt with palm trees on it and crinkly, blue shorts that fell past his knees.

“Well, good morning.” Mackelroy Puggsley took in the odd view. “How may I be of service?”

“You sell marriage licenses here, right?”

“Unfortunately, we do.” Mackelroy stroked his short, snowy beard, the mere mention of marriage bringing back bitter memories of his recent divorce. “But if you’d prefer a quick death, perhaps I can interest you in a motorcycle license instead,” the old man quipped.

“Nah, that’s all right. A standard marriage license will do.”

“Are you sure? It isn’t too late to change your mind. No one else has to know about it but us. It can be our secret,” Mackelroy whispered, careful not to offend any of the female patrons within earshot of him.

“Don’t worry about me. I won’t be changing my mind anytime soon. She’s a really great...uh...woman.”

“Is that so?”

“The absolute best.”

“Trust me, that’s what they all say.” Mackelroy considered the wiry, pathetic man for an instant. “Very well. But when you’re lying on your deathbed, just remember that I tried to talk some sense into you.” He reached into the drawer and pulled out a fresh certificate.

“Could you make that to go?” the man asked.

“To go? What do you think this is, some sort of fast food restaurant? I realize that cannabis is legal in the great state of Colorado and everyone’s on a rocky mountain high, but this isn’t a drive-through. It’s the DMV! Would you like a side of fries while you’re at it? How about some extra cheese for that shit sandwich that you’re serving up?” Mackelroy crossed his arms.

“Oh no, you’ve got me all wrong.”

“Mmm hmm...”

“Seriously, I respect the institution of marriage. I really, really do. But it might be easier to take it home and have my wife sign it.”

“Well that’s not how we run things here. Both parties must be present when the document is signed, Mr...uh...”

“Bloob. Bilby Bloob.”

“Right.” Mackelroy shook his head. That had to be the most ridiculous name he’d ever heard. “Put yourself in my shoes. If you were a preacher binding two lovebirds together in the holy act of matrimony, wouldn’t you find it odd if one of them didn’t show and decided to mail it in? How would they know that they’re entering into the contract willingly? Or that they’re even alive? Unless she’s ailing, I’m afraid she’ll have to come in so that we can eliminate the possibility of coercion or fraud. But if she’s on her deathbed—which is an indication of where you might wind up—then one of us can always pay her a visit.”

“Well, actually she is here.” Bilby scratched the back of his neck.

“Really? Great! I’d love to meet the old hag who’s hell-bent on destroying your life. Just have her step up to the counter and I’d be more than happy to offer you a loaded contract and sign your soul away for all eternity. Next?” Mackelroy waved at the teenager behind him with a skateboard in hand.

“No, I mean she’s here right now.” Bilby cut off the skateboarder.

“Seriously? Well, where is she?” Mackelroy put on his glasses and scanned the lobby. He wiped them thoroughly, put them back on, and glanced at the young man. “You don’t mean him, do you?” He pointed.

“No!” Bilby cringed.

“Then bring her up to the counter. And good heavens, what’s that smell?” The old man tried to fan away the brash odor.

“Well, wouldn’t you know it? There she blows.” Bilby smirked.

Mackelroy exhaled and shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious, I’m afraid.”

“Irene?” Mackelroy turned. “Can you help this gentleman at window four? I have to deal with this clown.”

“Sure, no problem.” Irene smiled. “I can take you over here.”

The young man with the skateboard held his nose and walked away briskly.

“Are you mad?” Mackelroy turned to Bilby. “You know that we don’t do that sort of thing here.”

“But that’s what I want. And it isn’t fair that I can’t be with the one I love,” Bilby groaned. “If two gay guys can legally take a wrecking ball to each other’s asses in the spirit of holy matrimony, then why can’t I marry my darling little pooty?”

“I think you’ve been watching way too much Miley Cyrus.”

“Well, there must be some way we can work this out.”

“But I can’t do it, not legally,” said Mackelroy. “At first, a marriage license could only be issued to a man and a woman. Recently, the law has been changed to allow same sex couples so that everyone’s lives could be ruined equally. But what you’re asking takes it a dimension further—all the way to the Twilight Zone. There’s nothing in the law that suggests that I can do what you ask of me.”

“And why not?” Bilby croaked.

“Because in the United States of America, a man cannot legally marry a fart!” Mackelroy screamed.

The entire lobby stopped and stared at the old man.

“Please, sir.” Bilby tried to ignore the eyes upon him. “If you don’t help me, I’m afraid that I might kill myself.” He broke down in tears.

“Seriously? Oh, hell.” Mackelroy exhaled. He stepped around the counter and put a hand on Bilby’s shoulder. “There, there.” He patted him on the back.

After a few moments, the crowd turned away and resumed processing their motor vehicle requests.

“If you think it’s bad now, wait until you get married.” Mackelroy tried to console him. “Perhaps it would be better if you went home and thought this through. After all, I don’t think a fart is worth killing yourself over. In my thirty years, I’ve never had a customer walk through the door and asked to be married to a...good heavens...” The old man plugged his nose.

“But farts are people,” Bilby insisted.

“Are they now?”

“And in some cases, they’re smarter than the average man. Dr. Flatus Cheeky gave a lecture about it a few years back.”

“Well that isn’t saying much. Per capita, we have more of the world’s village idiots than anyone else.”

“Please, Mr. Spackletoy.” Bilby glanced at the old man’s nametag.

“Mackelroy.”

“Whatever. Will you consider my request if I can prove my fiancé, a primitive gaseous entity, is every bit as capable and human as you are?”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” The old man scratched his head.

“Please, sir. I’m begging you!” Bilby knelt down and kissed his feet.

“Fine, fine. Just don’t make a scene.” Mackelroy pulled him back up.

“Oh thank you, Mr. Spackletoy.” He embraced the old man.

“Right.” Mackelroy peered at the lobby, plenty of eyes still anchored to him. “So I suppose that ghastly smell is your wife?”

“Oh, you can smell her? See, she’s real! And to think you doubted me.” Bilby wagged his finger.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure how anyone could miss her. Everybody’s probably had a whiff of her by now.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me. She’s a popular girl after all, if a bit temperamental.”

“Does she have a name?” Mackelroy asked.

“I’ll let her give it to you. Darling?” Bilby gestured.

Suddenly Mackelroy’s nostrils were overrun with a hideous odor that caused his eyes to tear and body to contort. When he finally came to his senses, one word stuck out in his mind. “Ethel?” he said aloud.

“Yep, Awful Ethel. Isn’t she the gas?” Bilby chuckled.

“What a clever trick. I had no idea that words could be passed through farts,” Mackelroy thought to himself. Sure, he’d heard about the Indians using smoke signals, but what was this shit? “Wait, what am I thinking? All he had to do was nod at the first word that came out of my mouth. He’s a fraud. An impostor! I could have said Mother Teresa and he still would have agreed with me.”

“So, Mr. Spackletoy, would you do the honors so that we can be on our marry way? Get it? Marry,” he giggled.

“Well, there is one thing we need to address.” Mackelroy cleared the cobwebs from his head. “Does your new bride have some sort of identification, like a driver’s license or a passport?”

“Does she look like she can drive?” Bilby pointed to thin air. “And why would she need a passport if she can already fly?”

“Look, I’m trying to help you out here, but procedures are procedures. I need some kind of identification to make the contract valid.”

“Oh yeah? Then perhaps my fiancé should introduce herself again. I’m sure you’ll i.d. her in a heartbeat.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” But before the old man could get all of the words out of his mouth, he inhaled a lungful of the ghastly ghoul. The stench transported him back to a time when his old pooch Maribel broke wind while she was sleeping, giving him nightmares for weeks. He dreamed of an army of tiny dwarves striking away with their hammers and clubs, trying to seal a great wooden door before the deadliest odor known to man snuck through and wiped them out. The gas giant was one he knew well, a calamitous cloud that struck fear into the hearts of mortal men and caused them to brown their pants. That fart was none other than... “Ethel?” Mackelroy said again.

But how could that be? For a second time in the past few moments, Bilby’s steamy squirrel had placed a name in his head. He had miraculous control of his venomous vapors, this one. Perhaps there was more to his story after all.

“Now do you believe me? You have to admit she’s unforgettable. I mean, how much more identification do you need?” said Bilby.

“All right, but how can I tell one fart from another?” Mackelroy asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone knows what a fart smells like, but I’m not sure that they can distinguish between them. Suppose you’re in a room full of gassy, old men. The opera is swarming with them! Now, let’s say each farts one after another. Can you say for sure which was Uncle Ned’s or Aunt Diane’s? And what if one lies about their identify and says that they’re Olga when they’re really Melba? There must be something that sets them apart from the rest.”

“Well, she’s the Queen of Farts and that’s all you need to know.” Bilby nodded.

“That she is.” Mackelroy fanned the demonous dirge away.

“Like the song.”

“Or your ass.” The old man coughed.

“Well, since one’s word obviously has no meaning these days, here’s her driver’s license.” Bilby plucked it from his wallet and handed it over.

“Wait a minute. I thought you said she couldn’t drive.” Mackelroy looked down at the license.

“Of course she can’t drive. She’s a fart! But I got her a driver’s license so that we could open a line of credit.”

“Ridiculous!” Mackelroy gazed at the photo that was nothing more than a blue screen backdrop. “Where did you say you got this?”

“Where do you think?”

“Here?!”

Bilby slowly nodded.

“You can’t be serious.” The old man nearly had a heart attack. “What’s this? Height: zero feet, zero inches. Weight: zero pounds. Eyes: brown. Who attended you?”

“I think he said his name was Noah.”

“Noah, was it?” Mackelroy’s blood boiled. He was that scraggly pothead that fucked up everything in the few, short weeks he had worked for the Department of Motor Vehicles. Unfortunately, it was one mistake that could not be undone. Bilby’s farty fiancé now had a bank account, ATM card, health club membership, a loan for a new car and perhaps a house, and most importantly, a license to kill. Judging by the dung-eating fools handing out loans in those bubblicious days, Mackelroy wasn’t the least bit surprised.

“So there’s your proof. Now can we get married?” Bilby squawked.

“But you still haven’t proven that a fart has any intelligence. Sure, somehow you transmitted her name directly into my brain, but even infants are capable of language. Cripes, some monkeys have vocabularies of hundreds of words. Just look at the federal government!”

“Hundreds of words, eh? Would you like her to enter your nostrils a hundred times more? She’ll talk in there for as long as you like.”

“No, no, no-” Mackelroy was throttled by a fresh wave of noxious gas. He could swear that he heard the word “asshole” mixed in with other profanities as the odor cleared away. “Well...” He teetered. “I still need her signature.” The old man shook it off and jumped behind the desk. “After all, you can’t have a contract unless both parties sign.” He peeked over the counter.

Bilby grabbed the marriage contract and quickly signed his name. He laid the pen down next to him and waited. And waited... “Come on, honey. Go ahead and sign it already.” For a few moments, the pen laid perfectly still. Then abruptly a gush of wind nudged it aside, knocking it to the floor.

“Oh, this is going to take forever,” Bilby whined. “You knew that she would have difficulty with it. It isn’t fair!”

“Nor should it be. It’s a contract, knucklehead, and you can’t enter into a contract with a patter of hot air,” Mackelroy barked. “What’s wrong with Americans these days? You’re a bunch of fairness freaks! Why should all the children get trophies regardless of how poorly their teams performed during the season? That defeats the whole purpose! Next, some guy will show up in my lobby wanting to marry a tub of margarine. Why? Because if men and women can get married, why can’t they? Drunk drivers shouldn’t be able to marry the tree that they just crashed into. You people are out of your minds. Complete lunatics!”

“Careful, old man,” Bilby warned him.

“Or what? Is your fiancé going to haunt me for all eternity until I give you the marriage contract of your dreams? Beat it, fool, before I call the police.”

Suddenly a wind swirled around them.

“Now you’ve done it! You’ve made her mad. Really, really mad.” Bilby’s voice darkened.

“Leroy.” Mackelroy motioned to the security guard. “Escort Mr. Bloob outside.”

Abruptly the marriage certificate flew out of Mackelroy’s hands. It soared over the line of customers, stirring up loose papers in its wake, and looped back around to the old man. He snagged the paper from the air, squeezed out a little squeaker of his own, and began signing it, adding his name as witness.

“No!” he screamed, but he was no longer in control of his hands. “Leroy, do something! This certificate must not be signed. Mankind depends on it!”

The security guard drew his gun and fired, but to no avail. He was quickly swallowed up by the wind and tossed through the lobby window.

“Ahh!!!” Leroy sailed high into the air and plunged to his death.

Patrons screamed at the top of their lungs and charged the glass doors. But the doors would not budge. One by one they fell to their knees, overcome by the hideous gas.

As Mackelroy turned his attention back to Bilby, he noticed that the gun was now in his hands. “Fine, I’ll sign your stupid marriage certificate!” he grumbled.

“Too late for that, Spackletoy. Besides, you already signed it,” a female voice came from Bilby’s mouth. “I’d like to thank you for your service, but I’m afraid, you’re fired.” Bilby pulled the trigger.

The bullet tore through Mackelroy and exited his shoulder blade. He staggered back, wavered for a moment, and then crumpled to the floor.

“See you around, old man.” Bilby chuckled. He tucked the certificate down the front of his pants and walked out the door.

“It’ll be sooner than you think,” Mackelroy uttered and passed out.

In the days that followed, no one could recollect the incident, not even the crusty, old clerk who had been shot. Certainly he would have retired if he had the means to do so, but like many of his coworkers, he found himself living paycheck-to-paycheck, riding out his job as long as he physically could. But the blackout concerned Mackelroy. Perhaps it was time to find a job a wee bit safer.

Oddly enough, the only thing he could remember was the smell—that rank odor that prompted visions of the undead and occasionally inspired him to want to jump off the highest rooftop. One day it revisited him in grand fashion, along with a peculiar man who claimed to know him.

“You’re right, marriage really stinks,” said Bilby, sporting a black t-shirt with dancing skeletons that said Disco Never Dies.

“Sorry?” Mackelroy wasn’t sure that he heard him correctly.

“I want a divorce.”

“But I don’t handle divorces. I only issue marriage licenses. You might want to start with a lawyer,” Mackelroy replied.

“But that’s not fair! Why doesn’t the place that handles marriage licenses also handle divorces?” Bilby pouted.

“Because life isn’t fair!” Mackelroy snapped. Suddenly he recognized the fart-brained fool. “Hey, I remember you. You’re that guy who wanted to marry a fart and then shot me.”

“Yeah, well, you were being an asshole.” Bilby shrugged. “Technically it wasn’t me. My wife did it, soon to be ex-wife.”

“Well you had no business marrying a fart in the first place, especially that malicious air biscuit.”

“That’s no concern of yours. Now give me a divorce!” Bilby unfolded the marriage certificate from his back pocket and tore it to pieces.

“That’s not how it works. You wanted to marry that crusty, old fart, and now you’re stuck with her,” said Mackelroy.

“But I don’t love her anymore. Besides, she left me. Now I love Samantha. Say hello, Samantha.” He grinned.

A fetid fragrance struck the old man across the nose, nearly knocking him off his rocker. Although he hated to admit it, he noted a profound difference between the two. But as stinky as it was, he suspected that he could deliver a worthy encore. “Hi!” The bubbly sentiment hung in the air along with the odor of a thousand dogs farting.

“Go ahead, kill me now. You won’t get anything else from me,” said Mackelroy.

“Come on, old man. Just issue me another marriage license and we’ll be on our way.”

“I can’t. You’re legally married to Ethel. You can’t be married to two women at the same time, let alone two farts.”

“But that’s not fair!”

“Tough shit. So, do you have a driver’s license for your new squeeze?”

“No, but I did register her to vote.” Bilby handed over the card.

“Ah, she’s an independent. I guess all farts are independent when you get down to it. So let me guess, you had it done here?”

“Yep.” Bilby nodded.

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Mackelroy tossed the voter’s card over his shoulder. “You can’t marry Samantha because I’m in love with her.”

“What?!”

“Samantha, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Say hello to Bartholomew, my son.” Thunder erupted from the old man’s buttocks, a deadly gas that had been trapped there for all ages. It filled the lobby, bringing panic to the workers who had survived the previous outburst.

But Samantha didn’t get angry or violent like Bilby’s previous wife, and Mackelroy could sense an air of harmony as one fart mixed with the other. After a few minutes the air cleared, and not a trace of either lingered.

“Samantha, darling, where are you?” Bilby sniffed around furiously. “Don’t leave me, Samantha! Please, don’t leave me!!!” He burst into tears. “This is all your fault. You’ll pay for this!” He cracked his knuckles and jiggled around in his chocolate-colored skinny jeans.

“Really, you need to get out more. Perhaps you should start by dating people on the same material plane as you,” said Mackelroy. “Besides, where did you and Ethel meet?”

“Here, actually.”

“Really? Then that means...” Mackelroy looked around. “Oh no! I think she’s here.”

Suddenly there was a loud burst followed by a surge of wind.

“Oops, pardon me,” said Beth Ellis, a middle-aged employee who was rumored to dabble in witchcraft. The plaque with her name on it was missing the last few letters, spelling “Beth El.”

“Ethel, daughter of Beth El. Of course!” Mackelroy shook his head. “You know the old saying, ‘Farts never float far from home.’ Well, there you have it. I suspect Ethel found out about your new girlfriend and hung around here until you showed up for a new marriage license. Prepare to meet your maker!”

A gust of wind scooped up Bilby and blasted him through the double doors of the lobby. He landed on the freshly paved asphalt and rolled to his feet. Surprised that he was still in one piece, he brushed himself off and smiled.

“I believe the contract says, ‘till death do us part.’” Mackelroy poked his head out the door.

“Huh?”

Suddenly a passing semi mowed him down, followed by a medium-sized commuter jet that had fallen from the sky. Unfortunately for Bilby, the spot where he had fallen also fell upon train tracks, where a speedy locomotive with a hundred freight cars attached to it thundered through. The train struck the wreckage, reducing Bilby to a stain on the pavement.

“Oh, never mind.” Mackelroy returned to his desk and turned to the next customer. “And how can I help you?”

“I understand this is the place to get marriage licenses.” A farmer stepped forward with his favorite sheep.

“Yeah, tell me about it.” The old man rolled his eyes.

THE END

My Two Cents

I knew I was onto something when my wife stepped in the room and shot me a dirty look. I’d just finished the cover of Marriage Stinks, and although English isn’t her primary language (or the language of farts, for that matter), she understood exactly what the title meant.

Dagnabbit!

“But the story’s about farts,” I tried to reassure her.

But she wouldn’t hear any of it. She shot me another dirty look, mumbled something incoherent in Spanish (and it wasn’t “Yo quiero Taco Bell!"), and promptly slammed the door.

To this day, she still hasn’t read it, even though I paid someone to translate it into Spanish. She refuses to read any of my fart fiction, for reasons I’m not entirely certain. Surely the title Marriage Stinks soured her; but for better or worse, I wrote it with her in mind.

That’s a shame, really.

I think she would get a kick out of it even though it features a fart as a main character, which is becoming more and more common these days. It’s not that she likes farts. Actually, I see her reaching for a knife every time I let off a stinker. One day she decided to match me fart-for-fart, and I learned my lesson. Big time!

As much as I’d like to think that my farts are the stinkiest, nastiest creations known to man, I’m simply outclassed. She beats me by a mile; so much so, that I wouldn’t dare hold another farting contest with her again.

I thought she’d appreciate the story since the two of us lived in Colorado for ten years and were happy to get away from the altitude and dry climate. Personally, I never quite adjusted to living at 5,000+ feet, and the frequent nose bleeds got old after a while (and I’m someone who rarely has nose bleeds, if ever). It wasn’t fun running a couple miles, day after day, and never quite catching my breath. And when I heard that they’d legalized marijuana after I’d moved back to the east coast, I was glad I got out of there.

Colorado is one of the few states where you can ride a motorcycle without a helmet. Since my dad nearly died of a motorcycle accident, and my father-in-law actually did, I understand the importance of wearing one. To make matters worse, I witnessed a horrible motorcycle accident while driving back from Lakewood one day, and vowed never to ride one for as long as I lived.

What basically happened was this: as traffic was flowing around a bend and coming closer to the exits for downtown Denver, a motorcyclist with a short-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and no helmet shot past me. I was going around 60 at the time, possibly 65, when he thundered by like I was standing still, weaving in and out of traffic.

There was just one problem.

Up ahead was a police car, that was going slower than I was. While I took my foot off the gas and let my car naturally bleed off the excess speed, the cyclist was going too fast to do anything other than fly right by him. So what did he do? Like a dumbass, he made a sharp turn for the exit and slammed on his brakes. Instead of a shedding a fair amount of rubber from his tires, the back of his motorcycle came up off the ground. The driver lost his balance and fell to one side, his leg getting crushed under the weight of the bike. To make matters worse, he was still sliding at least 60 miles per hour. I lost sight of him at the concrete barrier that barricaded the offramp. And just like my stories, there was no happy ending. Bummer.

I can only imagine what that same crazy driver might do while high. Might he be less aggressive and drive slower? Or perhaps he’d be so mellow about his speed that he’d crash right in the back of the police cruiser? Ultimately, people want to go wherever they want to go, and they don’t want to fuck around about it. Marijuana inhibits reactions in case of an emergency, much like alcohol. But whatever.

Since most of Colorado is going up in smoke, I figured why not poke fun at it?

I don’t hate Colorado or its pot users, but I’m glad to be back on the east coast. Since most of my wife’s family is also located here, there are plenty of dubious souls to trade fart stories with. No doubt Colorado is a decent place full of great people, plenty of things to do, and a moderate cost of living. It just wasn’t for me or my farts.

But the two of us did get a marriage certificate at the DMV in Aurora, Colorado. That part is true. And the branch did look as shabby as suggested, although the people are far more competent. (Though I have heard stories...)

In fact, my crazy brother still lives there. While Colorado never quite clicked for me, he absolutely loves it there. Currently, he works at a bar where he pulls in big bucks three nights a week and either plays poker or sells stuff on eBay the rest of the time. Likely he makes more than I do. (Ok, most definitely more than me!) He also met the woman of his dreams with a built-in family, so I’m sure he has plenty of fart stories of his own.

That’s another reason why I set these stories in Colorado. He’s still there, and can appreciate some of the inside jokes. And having lived in Denver while watching new episodes of South Park, I can assure you that there’s nothing better than enjoying a few, good inside jokes about hookers and Colfax. (And no, I still can’t believe there’s a grocery store chain called King Sooper’s, but hey—that’s Colorado!)

Ok, fine.

I confess!

Part of me misses Colorado.

That’s where I lost many a braincell.

And that’s why I can’t stop writing about farts.

You got me, partner,

—Donald Rump, Fart Expert

Product Description

Mackelroy Puggsley thought he’d heard it all until an odd man named Bilby Bloob shows up in his lobby one morning. When Bilby demands a marriage license for his gassy wife, the old man puts his foot down. Sure, it’s one thing to marry your high school sweetheart, but a fart? Who in the world marries a fart?

“Well I’m not going anywhere until you give us a marriage license,” Bilby insists.

“Is that so?” Mackelroy cracks his knuckles.

Marriage Stinks is a work of fart fiction, approximately 3,600 words in length.

KEYWORDS: fart fiction, crazy, tales, marriage, divorce, humor, humorous, gas, flatulence, bodily humor, dating, gassy women, fun, funny, joke, jokes, holy matrimony, comedy, gassy wife, bride attacks groom, dmv, colorado

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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