Till Death Do Us Fart E-Book

Donald Rump

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Helen Hubbard's fears have finally been confirmed. During brunch one morning in her favorite restaurant, her husband Gary confesses to cheating on her, and is ready to leave at a moment's notice. When she pries deeper into the matter, she discovers more about his mysterious lover Muffy than she cares to know. "So you're leaving me for a fart???" Helen exclaimed. For mature (and not so mature) audiences. Approximately 2,500 words.

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)

© 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.

Image(s) licensed by DepositPhotos.com and © Santalucia Art Inc. (#10024679). Fart drawings by Mel Casipit.

First Edition (v1.1)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Donald Rump

Copyright

Dedication

Till Death Do Us Fart

My Two Cents

About the Author

Ad 1: Bottling Farts

Ad 2: 20 Common Questions About Farts

Till Death Do Us Fart

“I’ve met someone.” Gary Hubbard lowered his eyes and stared at the floor.

“And?” said his wife Helen, spreading cream cheese over her cinnamon raisin bagel.

“And...I’m sorry...I wanted to tell you sooner...” He kept his eyes anchored to the floor.

“Tell me what?”

“It’s just that...I’m sorry, dear, but we can’t be together anymore. I found her, my one and only true love!” Gary confessed.

Helen did not flinch or smash a plate over Gary’s thick skull. She sat at the table, calm and collected, and took a sip of coffee. “How long has it been going on?” She set her cup back on the saucer.

“How long?” Gary looked around the restaurant, beads of sweat streaking down his forehead.

“How long have you been fucking her?” She leaned forward, grabbed Gary by his striped tie, and looked him square in the eye. Helen was often ruthless when voicing her displeasure, leading to the police being called for domestic violence on more than one occasion. To the officers’ dismay they found that she was the guilty party, but locked up Gary anyways. Her father’s connections to the department helped her get away with anything, and Gary feared that that advantage might one day turn fatal.

The corners of Helen’s mouth turned inwards as a nearby table caught wind of the situation, paid their check, and hurriedly walked away. A storm was brewing. Swiftly.

“No, it’s not like that.” Gary waved a hand.

“Then tell me what it’s like.” Helen released him, brushed the crumbs off her dress, and sat back down. Helen took another sip of coffee, already tiring of the conversation. She couldn’t wait for the opportunity to smack him once they got home. Perhaps she’d tie him to the bedpost this time, and whip his hairy hide till she made it bleed. She hadn’t done that since the death of her previous husband, which sent her shopping for her next victim.

“I only met her this morning,” said Gary.

“And that was enough for you to decide to throw away your marriage of five years in the middle of Sunday brunch?” She tossed the contents of her coffee cup off to the side, scalding a waiter passing by. Instead of apologizing and blaming her husband for it like she always did, her mood darkened. “This is going to get really ugly. Are you sure that you want to play this game? Go ahead, divorce me. You’ll lose everything,” she dared him.

“Yes.” He shook his head earnestly. “That would be in the best interest for everybody.”

Damn, that was easy! Helen sat up straight in her chair, caught off guard by his bold demeanor. “Wait a minute. You said that you met this tramp this morning, am I not correct?”

“Mmm hmm...”

“Well, that’s impossible. You were with me this morning. Are sure it wasn’t one of your wet dreams?” Helen angled her head.

“That’s where I met her!” Gary insisted.

“Where? In our bed?”

“Yeah.”

“You met that dirty whore in our bed? How is that even possible?”

“I don’t know. It just happened.”

“Swept you off your feet, did she?” Helen took a cigarette from her purse and lit it.

A waiter stepped over to the table, wiping the coffee stain from his white shirt. “Ma’am, there isn’t any smoking in the restaurant.”

“Fuck off, or I’ll put it out in your scrotum.” She blew smoke in his face.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s for the fire alarm.” He pointed. “If it detects smoke, the sprinkler system will go off.”

Helen glared at him with her fiery, green eyes, staring him down, and causing him to turn around and retreat to the kitchen. “Tell me her name.” She took another drag of her cigarette.

“Muffy,” said Gary.

“Really? You’re dumping me for some slut named Muffy?” said Helen.

“Why? You don’t like the name? Well, I guess I could change it to Fluffy. Which do you prefer, Muffy or Fluffy?’ Gary asked.

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Helen pointed the cigarette. “You’re not seriously asking me to name your girlfriend, are you?”

“Not really. I’m just wondering which sounds better.”

“How about ‘Fuck You.’ Does that work for you?”

“Nah, I like Muffy instead.”

“What’s gotten into you, Gary? First you tell me that you’re cheating on me, next you tell me that you don’t even know your girlfriend’s name-”

“Hey, I didn’t say that I didn’t know her name. I just need to name her, that’s all,” Gary corrected Helen.

“Why? Doesn’t she come with a name of her own? Oh, I’m not even going to ask.” Helen could feel her blood boiling up to her neck. She ticked off cigarette ashes in her water glass and continued smoking. “What I want you to explain to me is how the two of you met in our bed.”

“Well, that’s where I found her.”

“What does that mean?” Helen threw up her hands in frustration.

“Excuse me, ma’am. There’s no smoking in the restaurant.” The manager stepped over to the table with the cowardly waiter in tow.

“Fine.” Helen put out the cigarette on the back of her husband’s hand.

Gary screeched and retracted his hand.

“Better?” Helen looked up, daring the manager to say another word.

“No, that will be all.” The manager nodded to the waiter to bring the check.

“So did you have sex with her in our bed?” Helen set her sights on her wounded husband.

“What? No!”

“Then how do you know that she’s in the same league as me? Not every girl will merrily do all of the things you ask for.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to take a chance and find out for myself.” Gary glared back at her. He dipped his white linen napkin in his ice water and dabbed his hand.

“So let me get this straight. You met her in our bed, but you didn’t have sex with her?”

“That’s right.”

“And you said it was in the morning?”

“Yep, this morning.”

“Liar! How is that even possible?”

“I don’t know, but miracles do happen if you open your heart to them. All you need is a little faith that everything will work out, and one day you’ll find the one that you’ve been searching for.”

“Right...” Helen shook her head, clearly unconvinced. “So what time did you meet her?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it was around nine,” said Gary.

“9:00 a.m.?”

“Yeah.”

“In the morning?”

“That’s right.” He nodded.

Helen reached over and slapped him across the face. “That’s physically impossible! I was still in bed with you. Are you sure that you have the right day?”

“Hey, I’m not crazy. I can tell yesterday from today.” Gary rubbed his cheek.

The wait staff gasped as Helen’s hand lingered over the knife, but all she did was laugh.

“So what kind of girlfriend is she, a ghost?” Helen took out another cigarette.

“Close. She’s a fart.” Gary smiled.

“What?!” She nearly swallowed the cigarette.

“Well, I guess it’s not politically correct to call her that. Just call her my gassy girlfriend.”

Helen’s jaw dropped, the cigarette falling soon afterwards.

“I’m sorry, honey. I figured it was better to tell you the moment I made sense of these emotions. You should be happy for me. Truly happy. And you can keep the money. Heck, that’s probably why you married me in the first place.”

“So you’re leaving me...for a fart???” Helen exclaimed.

“Will you please not call her that? She’s a self-aware gaseous entity. Treat her with respect! After all, if you were a fart, would you want to be called a...hey, wait a minute...” Gary scratched his head.

“Oh, my mistake.” Helen feigned ignorance. “So that’s what happened? Someone farted and you fell madly in love?” She burst out laughing.

“Hey, what are you laughing about?”

“The absurdity of it all! Whose fart was it? Yours or mine?”

“Well...” Gary continued scratching his head. “The truth is, I’m not exactly sure.”

“Oh, please!” Helen picked up her coffee cup, realized it was empty, and slammed it on the table. “It came from either you or me.”

“But it didn’t. Trust me, I’d know if it came from one of the two of us.”

“Then who did it? Casper the Friendly Ghost?”

“You know I don’t believe in ghosts,” Gary frowned.

“What, then? Rats? Cockroaches? Have you been hiding a gimp in the closet? Wait, I know what it is! It’s that blow up doll that you got as a gag gift all those years ago. I thought you got rid of that thing.”

“But I did get rid of that thing.” Gary shrugged. “Well, I guess there’s one possibility.”

“What?”

“Have you ever farted out of your vagina?”

Helen looked around, hoping that no one else had heard him.

“Yeah, that’s it! No wonder why I couldn’t place the smell. You know, your pussy farts are kinder than you are.”

“Gary!”

“I’m just saying-”

“Look, Gary, I’m sick of these games. If you want to play out your wild sex fantasies with Fluffy-”

“Muffy!”

“Whatever. Just say the magic word and I’ll walk out of your life forever.” Helen stood and grabbed her purse. “But the house is mine. And the corvette. And the account that you set aside for a rainy day.”

“Fine, take it all.” He grabbed his keys, removed one from it, and handed it to her.

Helen took the key in her hand. “So that’s it, then?”

“Yeah, bye bitch!” Gary waved.

“Seriously?” She stomped her foot.

“Seriously!” He nodded and crossed his arms.

“I can’t believe that you’re more in love with my farts than you are with me.” Tears began welling in her eyes. “So here I go, dumped for a lowly fart.”

“Not just any fart. The fart of my dreams.”

“It’s just incomprehensible! I don’t understand.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. Even though her makeup was runny and face twisted with disgust, there wasn’t a line or wrinkle on that flawless face of hers. “Now I know why you begged me to stick it in my ass all of these years. You were searching for someone. You were searching for her!”

“Yeah, well, sometimes a miner has to dig deep until he strikes gold,” said Gary.

“Are you sure that you’d rather be married to my fart than me?”

“Afraid so.” He was all smiles.

“But aren’t you missing the big picture? Why don’t you stay with me and I’ll make more? I’ll make even bigger and better ones next time!” Her heart raced for a moment.

But changing Gary’s mind and winning back his affection was impossible at this point. Considering the poisonous air biscuit that he’d fallen for, he likely had brain damage. “I’m afraid the answer is no. True, it’s a fart, and it came from you, but it’s one of a kind and can’t be replicated. Perhaps your wormhole is a portal to a distant part of the galaxy where mysterious gases come from. Who knows? All I know is that I love her, and I must be with her or I’ll go completely insane.”

“It looks like you’re there already, but I’m afraid I’m not going to let you do it.” Helen reached into her purse and grabbed a gun.

“Helen, what are you doing?” Gary raised his hands.

“No man leaves me, especially for a dirty, rotten fart!” She noticed a strange odor in the air. It smelled like rotten eggs tossed with road kill with moldy cheese sprinkled on top.

“Honey, it doesn’t have to be like this.” Gary waved his hands. “Take everything. I’ll start a new life from scratch.” He tossed his keys and wallet her way.

“You’ve given me everything, everything that a woman could dream of, except your heart. Why? Was I not good enough for you?” Helen turned the gun on herself.

“No, don’t!” Gary screamed.

“Not an inch closer or I’ll pull the trigger!” She took a step back.

Suddenly the police arrived and fanned out around the couple.

“Please, ma’am. Just put down the gun,” said an officer.

“Over my dead body!” Helen pressed the gun tighter. “Stay back, all of you.” The fetid odor filled her nostrils. She lowered the gun slightly and looked around. “She’s here, isn’t she?”

Gary lowered his head, the color draining from his face. Slowly he nodded.

“You know, it’s funny. I bought this gun just in case someone tried to rape me on my way from the gym. I never thought I’d turn it on myself over a fart,” she chuckled. “She does have a familiar odor, though.” Helen took another whiff. Instantly she was flooded with memories of all those times she’d banged the UPS man. Perhaps one of his farts got trapped in the bedroom and eventually found its way up her crack. It gave a whole new meaning to the slogan, “What can brown do for you?”

“Please, honey. Just drop the gun,” Gary pleaded.

“Well, at least she’s getting an honest, hardworking man.” Helen smiled and lowered the gun.

“Whew, that was close.” An officer wiped his forehead.

The other policemen sighed and eased their guns.

“Just let me get one last whiff of her and I’ll be on my way.” Helen held the gun to one side, closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath.

“Well, you really can’t take just one whiff.” Gary breathed in the horrendous fart.

“Yeah, no kidding!” The officers joined in as well.

“Congratulations Muffy or Fluffy or whatever your name is.” Helen snapped open her eyes. “NOW DIE!!!” She shot into the air, aiming for the fetid odor. She cackled with delight as the ghastly ghoul squealed in pain.

“No!!!” Gary jumped in front of Helen, taking several rounds to the chest.

The police had no choice but to open fire, riddling the scorned wife with bullets and knocking her off her feet. Abruptly the gunfire stopped, Gary and Helen’s motionless bodies lying on the floor.

“Gee, it’s a good thing you guys didn’t hit one of those gratuitously placed propane tanks.” The manager pointed to a corner of the room.

Gary wheezed, coughing up blood.

“So what exactly happened here?” The waiter peeked out from behind a plant.

“The classic, tragic ending of a tale of forbidden love,” said the manager.

“Or the predictable result when your gassy girlfriend is introduced to your fire-breathing wife,” said an officer. He stepped over, knelt down, and patted Gary on the shoulder. “Hang in there, buddy.”

“Why...why couldn’t it be just the two of us?” Helen crawled towards her gun, her other hand in her purse.

“Quick, the gun!” An officer screamed while another kicked it away.

“I forgot to tell you, honey. Fluffy had a twin sister!” Helen grinned. A magnificent wind broke between her legs, just as glorious as the humdinger that she laid on her husband earlier that morning. It was so bad that it instantly filled the restaurant with its wretched smell, causing everyone to see stars.

“It’s Muffy!” Gary choked down blood.

“Whatever!” She pulled her hand free of the purse, clicked open the lighter, and flicked it on.

“No!!!” Everyone in the room screamed as gas caught flame. The entire building erupted in a great ball of fire, incinerating everything and everyone in its wake.

THE END.

My Two Cents

Now that’s classic storytelling!

How could you not be impressed by the curveball twist at the end when a vile, mean-spirited trophy wife is left by her lonesome for a fart of her own making? That’s genius if you ask me, and it doesn’t get any better than that.

While many of us are scared that our spouse might leave us for another man or woman, none of us consider the possibilities. I recently read a similar classic, Taken by the Toaster, and it provoked similar questions. Is it in the realm of possibility that a husband could leave his wife for an inanimate object?

It seems logical, right?

And isn’t falling in love with a toaster just the tip of the proverbial iceberg? How about all of those sexy rice cookers out there, and popcorn makers? Bread makers? Soda dispensers? It wouldn’t surprise me if a groom got caught plugging the waffle maker, and I do not mean plugging it into the outlet. Such an act makes this torrid tale of love, divorce, and an untimely queef pale in comparison.

Considering the amount of porn and drugs people consume these days, I wouldn’t put anything past them. And grandma isn’t going to be around much longer to tell us that we don’t have any fucking morals. When someone refers to tomorrow’s grandma as a “golden girl,” I suspect it will carry very different connotations.

But it’s just love, right? And who can say who (or what) we will ultimately fall for?

How can you say that you wouldn’t fall in love with a pizza? I mean, it’s possible, right? All those luscious commercials of gooey pizzas filled to brim with meaty toppings and stuffed crusts is nothing more than pizza porn. (I’ll take a Hawaiian with extra ham, please.)

And who’s to say that you can’t marry more than one pizza? It sounds like a great idea already! If you swing both ways, you can have pepperoni one night and taco pizza the next. Damn, you’d have all bases covered!

Don’t like the era that you were born in? Well, it’s going to get a lot stranger. It’s works of fiction like these that try to warn you about the rabbit hole this nation has fallen into.

But don’t bemoan change. Embrace it!

And marry your tampon if it gives you comfort.

Personally, I don’t want to see men marrying lawnmowers or women marrying their pocket rockets, but it’s coming soon to a theatre near you! Someone has to draw the line somewhere, and inanimate objects might not be the only thing we want to strike from the list.

It seems like when we exclude something, the tolerance trolls come out in full force. “By not allowing Peggy to marry her Baconator, you’re being racist, bigoted, and hurtful towards other Baconators,” one will cry.

Say what?!

This is the future we’re painting, and it’s a frightful picture, indeed.

So if a man can fall in love with a pack of chewing gum or a four-egg omelet, why not a fart?

I mean, how much worse could it be?

The line, where is it? Where does it start or end? It all seems like one hazy brain fart to me.

I wrote about this topic extensively in Finding Floofy, and again here. If it’s ok for your grandma to marry a walrus, should there be any problem with an air biscuit?

“But gaseous entitles aren’t real people!” I keep hearing the same tired argument. I debunked that myth years ago with the release of 20 Common Questions About Farts. Yes, farts have personalities, a unique scent, and can even can perform rudimentary math. The science is there, and they are, indeed, people. Who would have thought?

So if they’re people, shouldn’t they get the same benefits as the rest of us? Having said that, why are we keeping them from marrying the ones they love?

Oh, it’s ok for your neighbor to marry an ironing board, but not a fart? Oh, the humanity! That lapse of logic makes me shake my head and wonder if we’ll ever be civilized.

I have no idea what the future holds or where this great nation is headed, but I’m convinced these issues will crop up. If someone wants to be a polygamous pizza pervert, then I say let them! They’re going to have a hell of a time untangling that gooey mess when it comes to divorce. Ditto with the dude and his waffle iron. Will he really get tax breaks for all of the little waffles he makes with said iron, and will he be forced to put them through school at the taxpayer’s expense?

We’re broke enough as it is, and we certainly don’t have time for this crap!

I’m afraid I don’t have answers to these tantalizing questions. Soon the fairness freaks will be found to be not fair enough, and thus deemed bigots, and we’ll have to go through a fresh round of equality for anything that classifies as a resident of this great nation, all the way down to the molecular level.

Don’t think, feel. And don’t hate, love.

Ugh!

What I think this all means is this: Life is about making connections, and passing on a part of yourself, even if it’s with an ice cream maker. (Don’t ask where the cream comes from!) Even if you’re married to the soap scum that you shed after taking a shower, let the good times roll, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

When you listen to others instead of yourself, that’s when doubt sets in, and eventually it runs you off course. All of us have a purpose in life. All of us have a destiny. Who isn’t to say that yours isn’t with a farm animal? They need loving, too.

As always, don’t get any bright ideas and lick a pair of donkey balls.

Your ever watchful activist,

Donald Rump Fart Expert

P.S. If you’re ever in town, my wife makes some mean fish tacos. Don’t worry, she’s not a fart, although she is Colombian. (Same difference?)

Swing by, I promise it will be a gas!

I’m genuinely curious what constitutes as marriage these days, and would love for readers to send some pictures. (No nude pictures of middle-aged men sticking coconuts up their bungholes, please. I’ve got enough of those already!)

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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