The Would Be Asstronaut E-Book

Donald Rump

• Herausgeber: Donald Rump
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Hank Larmspitz has a plan. Well, sort of. He's going to be the first man on the moon, dagnabbit, and he's going to do it without the aid of a space suit or even a space ship. Exactly what does he have in mind? Dan Dinkerleaf, a local correspondent for KAAS-LD Eureeka, wants to find out. And when he discovers Hank's true intentions, his patience becomes paper thin. "Seriously?" he blurts out. "Don't you think your theory is a bit…oh, I don't know...implausible?" "Watch close and you might learn something." Hank cracked his knuckles and pulled out a helping of his favorite brand. Intended for mature (and not so mature) audiences. Approximately 2,100 words.

Leseprobe

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

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

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Crazy Authors Volume 1

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)

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)

© 2015 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 © Karl Kotas (#10460376). Fart drawings by Mel Casipit.

First Edition (v1.1)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Donald Rump

Copyright

Opening Thought

The Would Be Asstronaut

My Two Cents

Product Description

About the Author

Ad 1: Till Death Do Us Fart

Ad 2: 20 Common Questions About Farts

The Would Be Asstronaut

“So let me get this straight...” Dan Dinkerleaf furrowed his brow and eyed the old man suspiciously. “You’re going to launch yourself into space...”

“Uh huh...” Hank Larmspitz inserted a pinch of mint-flavored chew between his lower lip and gums.

“And you’re going to land on the moon...” the reporter continued.

“Hopefully I don’t miss the dang thing,” Hank hollered.

“And you’re going to do all of this without the aid of a space ship?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, sir, how are you going to do it?” Dan was immediately skeptical.

“With this.” He held up something in his hand and grinned.

“Blasto’s Baked Beans?” Dan read off the side of the can.

“I guess I could order a bean burrito from Taco Bell or perhaps one of those new Spicy Tostadas from the Dollar Cravings Menu, but this here should get the job done.”

Dan looked back at the cameraman, who shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t follow. Are you saying that this can of beans can be converted into some kind of rocket fuel? And if you’re not using a space ship, what are you going to put it in? Your truck?” He turned to Hank’s beat up red Ford Ranchero parked behind them.

“Oh, you mean Buffy?” Hank ran his hand along the side of the truck.

“Uh, yeah...Buffy.” He glared at the cameraman.

Dan couldn’t believe his coworker Wolf Weigler had put him up to this. It had been a slow news day at KAAS-LD in Eureeka, Kansas. Hell, every day was. The day before Dan had covered a story about a strange series of potholes that had sprung up on the interstate due to unexpected rainfalls and mild quakes and nearly got run over for it. It wasn’t as if there was a lot of traffic in the small town of Eureeka, though. He knew virtually everyone who lived there. But those who could pass the driving test, the notable few, shouldn’t have been on the road in the first place.

But the story was at least newsworthy. He didn’t want to alarm residents in the surrounding areas that large sinkholes might swallow up their farms overnight. But they published the story anyways, and it made Dan feel like he had done something for the greater good of the community.

So when it came between covering a story about a pair of deep fried powdered donkey balls that had mysteriously materialized in Eureeka’s finest’s box of donuts and this, he figured, “What have I got to lose?”

But this story was absolutely perplexing, and he was already thinking about cutting the interview short if it didn’t pan out in the next few moments.

“What, are you, loco? How am I supposed to get to the moon and back in a truck? I doubt Pilot has a gas station up there and besides, I’d never get her back down in one piece.” He patted the truck gently as if it were his girlfriend’s plump backend and turned back to the camera.

“So if you’re not going to put your...uh...fuel into a space ship or car, what are you going to put it in to help you get to the moon?”

“Well, you’re looking at him right here. Me.” Hank pointed a thumb at himself and cracked a wide smile.

“You’re kidding, right? I mean seriously, are you trying to pull my leg here?” Dan laughed and looked around. “Wolf told me that you were going to make a trip to the moon--today, even--without the aid of modern conveniences.”

“Yep. I’m just going to wolf down this can of beans here and blast off--no pun intended.” He adjusted his ten-gallon hat.

“So you’re going to...” Dan looked around, confused.

“I’m going to fart my way into outer space.”

“Alright, that’s it. Cut.” Dan gestured.

“No, no, no. Keep going!” Wolf implored.

“You can’t be serious. This is utterly pointless.” Dan crossed his arms.

“He’s going to give us a live demonstration. Isn’t that right, Mr. Larmspitz?”

“Yeah, I reckon I’ll head up yonder in a few moments.”

“Really? You’re going to do this now?” said Dan.

“Yup.” Hank spit, and then farted. “Oops. I better hang on to those.” Unfortunately for them he couldn’t put them back in, for the wind tooting out of his tailpipe was truly heinous, and made them wonder if he’d swallowed roadkill for breakfast.

“But the moon isn’t even visible.” Dan angled his head to the sky, raising a hand to block the sun from his eyes.

“Yeah, but it’s still out there. Just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there. Didn’t your momma teach you nothin’?”

“Alright.” Dan held up his microphone again. “But what if you pass by the moon while you’re in space and realize that you’re shooting off in the wrong direction?”

“Oh, if it’s up there, I’ll find it. No moons are safe from this old buzzard.” The lines on Hank’s weather-beaten face turned upwards.

“So why do you think this will work? Have you ever visited the moon before?” Dan asked.

“Nope. This will be my maiden voyage.”

“Then why are you so confident? Have other members of your family visited the moon and lived to tell about it?”

“Oh, no. They wouldn’t believe me if I told them. But I have had encounters. One night I broke the wind so hard that I woke up on Pikes Peak the next morning,” Hank chuckled.

“Pikes Peak, Colorado? That’s at least five hundred miles from here.”

“Isn’t that something? But the Coloradans I spoke to weren’t all that surprised.”

“Really? Can you expand upon that?”

“Well, they said that the Mexicans had been doing it for centuries. The really good ones can fart their way clear across the border into Colorado. No need to worry about customs or even New Mexico for that matter. They just hop right over. That’s when I learned about all of the previous flights to the moon.”

“Huh?” Dan could barely follow the story as it was.

“The first man on the moon wasn’t an American. He was Mexican!”

“Really?” Dan was hardly impressed by the shocking revelation. “And you have proof of this?”

“Yeah, well, them Mexicans weren’t all that smart. I reckon I’ll stumble across their bones when I mosey on up there. If you like, I can bring back some as souvenirs.” He spit, tagging a mosquito buzzing nearby. “But unlike them, I’ve planned ahead so that I can make the return trip home.” Hank held up a second can of beans.

“So you’re going to use a second can of beans to get back to earth?” Dan shook his head.

“That’s right. I should probably pack a third just in case everything doesn’t go according to plan. Like in Apollo 13.”

“Three cans of beans? That’s all it takes for a round trip space flight?”

“Yeah, and you know Food Barn around the corner has them on sale: three for two dollars. You can’t even buy a gallon of gas for two dollars these days.” Hank adjusted his hat. “Talk about getting bang for your buck! Too bad NASA didn’t consult me before putting a man on the moon. I could have saved tax payers a load of cash.”

“Don’t you think your theory sounds...oh, I don’t know...implausible?”

“No, not really.” Hank pursed his lips and shook his head.

Dan loosened his tie, clearly annoyed by how long the interview was taking and the direction it was headed. “If you’re planning on taking a journey into space, where is your space suit?” He pointed to the old man’s torn jeans, flannel shirt and steel-toed boots.

“Oh, do you think I should wear a darker shirt so that it brings out my blue eyes?”

“No, you imbecile! I mean-” Dan coughed. “How is it possible to go to the moon in a pair of blue jeans?”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“Well, for starters, how are you supposed to breathe? There isn’t any oxygen in space.”

“Oh, I’ll just hold my breath. I don’t plan on staying long. Or do you think I should? So that a satellite or someone on earth can snap some photos of me?”

“No, I err...I don’t know, but...ugh!” Dan tried to shake off the overwhelming frustration. “Let’s say that you’re able to launch into space with a generous helping of Blasto’s Baked Beans. How do you slow your approach once you’re in space? There isn’t any gravity or wind resistance between the earth and the moon. You’ll continue on at whatever speed you’re going until you crash. Unless your can of beans also includes brakes, it could be a very rough landing.”

“Do you see this face?” He stepped forward and stared into the camera. “As you can see, I’m a little rough around the edges, and it certainly wouldn’t make me any uglier if I face-planted in the lunar sea. Before I got Buffy I owned a motorcycle and hit a pothole going seventy-two in the desert. Landed right on my head. It didn’t put me in the hospital or nothin’, at least not as far as I can remember. It can’t be much worse than that.”

“Seriously? And if you’re wrong?”

“Hank Larmspitz ain’t never been wrong about nothin’ in his whole, dang life. Even so, it ain’t anythin’ a little Alka-Seltzer can’t fix.”

“Right. Well, I guess we really won’t know until you try. So it’s my understanding that you’re going to perform a demonstration for us?”

“Yeah, sure.” Hank slipped a can of beans in his pocket, and began opening the other. “It’s great that they now have these peel-back cans. Sure beats the heck out of using a can opener...or your teeth.”

Dan merely nodded as Hank gulped down the can of baked beans.

“Now you might want to step back before I go off. I’m not sure how big the blast zone’s gonna be.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Dan looked back at the cameraman and winked.

“All right, suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Hank turned and made some faces. He leaned over slightly, rubbing his hand over his stomach. “Dagnabbit, those beans are brutal!” He cradled his stomach. “Alright. Any minute now.” He closed his eyes and groaned.

But nothing happened.

“Are you sure about this, Mr. Larmspitz?” Dan spoke into his microphone.

“Yeah, I got this.” He waved him off.

Still nothing. Just a few, small pockets of gas bubbled out of his backend.

“What the heck’s going on here?!” Hank stomped his feet, and began pacing back and forth. “You know, a good fire needs primer to get started. Would you do the honors?” He handed Dan his lighter.

“Won’t you need this in order to get back home?” said Dan.

“Oh, I’ve got a book of matches in my pocket. But fire needs oxygen. Didn’t you just say there wasn’t any oxygen in space?”

“I did, but-”

“Aw, crimony. Don’t worry about it, I’ll think of something. Now on my mark, light me up. T minus ten, nine...” He felt something rumble around his lower intestine. “Eight...seven...six...” The sharp pain in his abdomen intensified. “Whoa Nellie! It’s coming on strong now! Five...four...three...Hey, are you getting this?”

“Oh, I’m getting this alright.” The cameraman cracked open a can of beer and took a swig.

“Two...one. Blast off! Now light me up!!!” Hank screamed and broke a cataclysmic gust of wind for the ages.

Dan flicked the lighter, then again until a spark ignited. When gas caught flame, Heroic Hank was launched high into the sky.

“No way,” Wolf uttered, following him as best he could.

After a few moments, Hank exploded like a firework on the Fourth of July. A hail of blood, brains and other unsavory bits rained down on the unsuspecting cameraman and reporter. Amazingly, they kept rolling.

Dan looked himself over, covered from head to toe in human remains.

“Quick, say something.” Wolf gestured.

“How far can humans push the limits without the aid of science or technology? One man sought an answer, and paid dearly for it.” Dan looked into the camera, his face speckled with blood and gray matter. “This is Dan Dinkerleaf, reporting for KAAS-LD, channel-” Suddenly, a long, brown turd flashed down and plastered the newsman’s blonde head. “Oh, fuck it!” He threw the microphone down. “This always was a crap job, anyways.” He shook his fist, got in his car and drove off, Hank’s fecal offspring dangling from his golden mane.

THE END.

My Two Cents

I’ve been meaning to get around to writing this story for quite some time, but as fate would have it, other priorities demanded my time. Like sleep. And TV. And being fucking lazy.

Now that I’ve written this masterpiece, I’m kicking myself. A man using a can of beans for rocket fuel to get to the moon--what’s not to like? This is not merely a story that I could write, it was one that absolutely needed to be told. And if you see a weird stain on the moon at night while looking through your telescope, you’ll understand exactly what happened. Some idiot, like the one in this story, tried to take matters into their own hands, and face-planted like that old game Lunar Lander.

In all seriousness, I really meant to write this harebrained story, but for one reason or another, I always found something else better to do. It’s a funny thing with writers--we say that we love to write and then promptly find other obstacles to put in our way. I’m sure many non-writers think that we sit at a computer and write all day, and in some cases, disciplined professionals do exactly that. But most of us (ok, me!) write a little, get pulled into something else, and often don’t find our way back to our writing for days or even years.

Yes, I know, it’s bad, and if I forced myself to finish what I started while it was fresh in my head, I’d be a lot more productive, and the literary world would be a much stinkier place.

But it really is a problem, and authors should enjoy this opportunity that has sprung up in the last few years. Yes, we can finally make money without a major publisher, and if we choose to, we can do everything ourselves!

By and large I write these stories to amuse myself, and see what chaos I can rain down on the hapless characters that infest my pages. In my world, it’s far more important to focus on the morally bankrupt and deranged than actual winners and their trophy wives (although that seems like a tantalizing future prospect). I mean, why write about people who aced all of the exams when you can focus on slovenly losers who bumble their way through life? I don’t know. They seem a lot more interesting and far more fun to torture with horrid odors and whatever other bodily fluids I can throw at them.

Will any of these stories actually make money? Who cares? That’s right, I said it. Who fucking cares? That’s not why I write them, anyways. The real point is to have fun, and I suspect if that I’m having fun, some of it will rub off on the finished product, and ultimately, the readers.

Is the writing juvenile? Of course! And I wouldn’t have it any other way. The more ludicrous the writing, the better I can express myself and lay it on real thick.

There’s also a bit of truth to these crazy stories, and I think that many of us can find pieces of ourselves or others in the zany characters. I mean, who hasn’t had a bad idea or ten? It seems like history is full of people with bad ideas, who typically don’t think through the consequences. These stories are a reflection of that mentality, which still pervades our culture today.

So why are farts funny? I don’t know, they just are. And seeing my wife’s face when I crack a good one is priceless. She hasn’t killed me yet, though her eyes tell me that my time is limited. (Come on, she knows she loves them. Somewhere deep down inside, I know she does. “Son pedos amables,” I frequently tell her.)

In many ways, I guess I should blame my dad. He always liked to let it rip and made jokes about them. My mother, of course, would have none of it, which made the situation even funnier. My dad would typically blame tree frogs, ducks--even me.

But that’s a far cry from his best handiwork.

Sadly, I was in another state when my brother went to court and brought along my father. My dad apparently blasted the courtroom good, and was sitting next to my brother’s lawyer when the bomb went off. If you have my brother tell the story, you’d think that he was addressing the judge when my dad carpet bombed the courtroom and everyone turned and looked at him. It didn’t quite go that way, but everyone did think that my brother did the dirty deed and not my father.

That sneaky bastard!

But if there’s one person who knew what the hell was going on, it was the lawyer, who frowned at my father with a smug, straight face. And yeah, if you guessed it, the lawyer was a woman who gazed at him with the same scorn that my mother did when he embarrassed her in front of family at the dinner table on holidays.

I really can’t take him anywhere, and sometimes I’m afraid that he’ll go off at the worst time. That’s why I don’t take him to the movies anymore, and certainly not the opera. I don’t want him to be playing tunes along with the 120-piece orchestra. Yeesh...

So...stinky...

While it’s horrifying for me, it’s damn funny when I tell someone else. “I can’t believe he did that!” my wife turned bright red when I recounted the courtroom fiasco to her, yet another dastardly deed that fortunately I was not privy to.

Yes, I know. I’m damaged, and there’s no hope for me now.

Blame my parents, or hell, blame me! But the legacy will live on, and you certainly haven’t heard the last of our farts, whether real or imaginary.

Is writing about farts a wise use of time? Probably not, but I was surprised to find that a number of humorous children’s books involving farts have sold well (My Monster Farts, My Robot Farts, etc.). Yes, you read that right--there are bestsellers on Amazon right now featuring farts as main characters (or arch villains). After becoming aware of this, I couldn’t help myself, and promptly wrote my first children’s fart book under the pen name Dingleberry Small.

So, if you prefer farts for adults and are not offended by the occasional f-bomb, the Donald Rump product line is for you. And if you’re searching for something a little cleaner that’s intended for kids of the middle grade variety, take a look at Dingleberry Small. Please note that boogers, dookies and underwear-adventures are a few of the other things that you’ll find under that dastardly pen name. And if there’s some type of gross out humor that I haven’t stumbled upon yet, it will likely end up there first. No kidding!

Thanks again for reading, and don’t try out any of the bright ideas that you find in these pages. Most likely you’ll get maimed, hurt, or wind up stuck on the moon, where you will remain for all times, your frozen corpse bonded to the lunar landscape until it’s blown asunder by a passing meteorite.

Stay safe, keep your feet on the ground, and keep the good times rolling,

--Donald Rump, Fart Expert

Product Description

Hank Larmspitz has a plan.

Well, sort of.

He’s going to be the first man on the moon, dagnabbit, and he’s going to do it without the aid of a space suit or even a space ship.

Exactly what does he have in mind?

Dan Dinkerleaf, a local correspondent for KAAS-LD Eureeka, wants to find out. And when he discovers Hank’s true intentions, his patience becomes paper thin. “Seriously?” he blurts out. “Don’t you think your theory is a bit...oh, I don’t know...implausible?”

“Watch close and you might learn something.” Hank cracked his knuckles and pulled out a helping of his favorite brand.

Intended for mature (and not so mature) audiences. Approximately 2,100 words.

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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