Out for a Walk

            As a college student I have become used to a certain diet.  This diet comes with low budget.  However as a member of a strong family, 3 to 5 times a year I have a meal that knocks my socks off.  Our story starts on a chilly and damp Thursday in late November.  As a thanksgiving traveler, my family finally arrived in Owatonna.   A fabulous appetizer spread of sausages, wines and cheeses was perfectly accented with Rich Dauck provided Mich Golden Draft.  Having won they sober cab competition I was off the hook for driving, and i was in for a whirl wind of booze and protein based foods.  

            Our happy hour ended after several hours of catching up, visiting, and grazing around the kitchen appetizers.  The most familiar ding came from the oven; it appeared this turkey was cooked.  A delicious 26 pound bird was accompanied with all of the heartiest fixings.  This delicious, festively filling meal would turn out to be my demise on this, the thanksgiving of 2009.  I had several plates that I covered entirely with gravy, like an obese man covers his arteries with cholesterol.   Let’s just say I smothered those plates with gravy like Chris Benoit smothered his family with pillows.  After 4,000 calories, a 6-pack, and Aunt Suzie’s famous pumpkin pie, it was time for the Gebbie’s to leave.  For the one hours ride back to Minneapolis, my grandpa’s van seats ate my farts like a Sconnie eats cheese curds, fast and with purpose. 

When we pulled into Minneapolis, I was ready to greet my family toilet with a butt throw up off a 4,000 calorie proportions.  Laurie (my mother) had other plans.  Our renegade 12 pound dog, needed to taken for a poop stroll.  Ironically the only poop to be had on this stroale was to be mine.  I was heading south on the Chowen’s 45^th block and I hung a right on 46^th avenue and evacuated what I thought to be just a warm fart.  On my short 6 block walk I hung another right on Bryant, this is the street where things got critical.  There could not have been more than four houses that I passed, when I squeaked another warm fart.  I remember thinking to myself, it a little chilly for some butt sweat.  I made the choice to check out the situation.  The results were inconclusive.  I was 2 blocks from home and the warmth of my butt genitals was not covering my whole lower body.  I arrived home, headed for my basement bedroom, which was nothing but an air mattress over an unfinished basement floor.  When coming to the basement I credit card swiped my butt, I came up with a bowling score, some spares covered in turkey. I was not mad, I had only one option, check the undies. When I removed my underwear I was proud of the bacon strip I left in my shorts, it reminded me of how I would cover a fresh quiche.  I thought to my self two options, first was to just wash my shorts, second was to go for a walk, and light those drawers on fire.  <apologies to SW Minneapolis HS> I burned my shorts in a parking lot near my place, wiped my butt and never spoke of this again, until I got home, when I told my brother.  I have since sharted.

            

The Sneak Attack

           When I woke up this morning, the light in the room was extremely painful, from there it all sets in.  I blacked out last night.  Now blacking out is not all that bad, in fact, I find it to be quite enjoyable, except for the hangover of course.  Like the time I blacked out and I woke up with a broken nose and a crooked tooth and half a pizza down the little crack in the oven, but that’s whole other story. My theory is that the more hung-over you are, the more fun your was, so last night must have been a damn great night.  You add the fact that I have as many clothes on as the day I came into this world, I knew some interesting shit went on in this room.  To any of those people that have experienced waking up butt naked with no one else in your bed, with no recollection of what happened, it is one of the scariest things that can happen to you.  You just start thinking what kind of creature of the blue lagoon was in your bed with you last night, that shit gives me the shivers.  I start looking for my phone to get some sort of idea on what the fuck happened last night but there are no text messages or missed calls.  I go out in to the living room of my apartment and see if any of my roommates have woken up from their drunken slumber but to no avail.  My head is pounding, so I take step one of my sure proof hangover cure which is pop some Advil and pound some water to get this recovery process rolling.  I hop on the computer and hit up what that guy from the movie Social Network invented (I actually put the name of the site when he starts paying me some that $5 Billion of his.)  Finally one of my roommates wakes up and stumbles into my room in the same condition I was in. I ask him. “What the fuck happened last night?”

“I have no idea man, I blacked the fuck out,” he replied.  Well that’s just great, that’s zero help.  We chat for awhile about what we remember of the night as the other two roommates finally wake up.  I ask them the exact same question and they both have no idea.  Damn, well this night is starting to worry me now.  I decide that we will figure this out soon enough, someone will call or text us some sort of explanation of the shenanigans that took place last night.  So I decide we should go get some food.  Which takes us to step two of the hangover recovery is to put a ball of food in your stomach to settle that demon down.  So we hop in my car and head to Qudoba to get a nice tasty burrito down. 

Let me tell you right now, Qudoba should be paying me for what I’m about to say.  You go in to your local one, and order the Stake and Queso burrito, does not matter what else you put on it.  It is one of the tastiest things you can eat and its damn good in the hangover process to boot.

I leave the restaurant completely stuffed, at this point I’m not happy that I wore jeans because these things are putting a lot of pressure on my stomach, I mean a lot of pressure.  I sit down in my car and all of a sudden a fart just erupts out and mind you it was a excellent one, but it really snuck up on me.  I just thought it was a really nice fart and nothing else cane with it.

I kept going in thinking nothing of it.  I wiggled a little bit to put my seat belt on and that’s when I noticed it.  There was some wetness inside of my back of my pants that I could not explain.  Now, I was starting to wonder what was going on down there.  To go back to when I first farted, the smell of this fart was as like to call, “Voluptuous,” If you do not know what the word means just think of Kim Kardashin’s ass, that thing right there is voluptuous. My roommates might disagree with that word choice, but it’s my story so screw them.  Back to the smell, you know how normal farts the smell goes away? Well this one’s smell just lingered there, it had an excellent hang time, Michael Jordan could only wish he had this kind of hang time.  Then it hit me, there is a possibility that I might have actually Sharted.  I turn to my roommates who are in the car, “Guys, I have some news you guys are either going of as good news or bad news.  There is a great possibility that I might have Sharted.”  They received this information with mixed emotion.

I decided that we were going to have to stop to because I did not want to wait until I got home to check this out.  We stopped at the Cub Food’s that was close to the Qudoba we ate and the one of my roommates came into the store with me for some reason. I would like to think that it is because he was really excited to see the outcome of this mystery.  As I went into the bathroom I thought he followed me in.  So walk into the handicap stall (obviously, it’s more roomy) and pull the pants down and take a seat on the toilet, and there is, a glorious Shart. I couldn’t handle my excitement and yelled out, “Yes! I Sharted!”  My roommate starts laughing at me but it was not his normal laugh but I just thought he thought my Shart was hilarious, and did not think twice about it.  I believe everything else is good at this point so I wipe my ass, pull up my Sharty boxers (yes I wore them out) and head to wash my hands.  However, as I am about to say something to my roommate, something was not right.  Unless my roommate had the ability to morph into other people, this guy was not who I thought he was.  It turns out it was not my roommate laughing in the bathroom with me, it wasn’t him that followed me in, but some random dude that I have never met in my life.  This just got a little bit weird. I did not know what to say to the man at this point.  I try to think of something funny but nothing comes to me.  So I just smile and walk with pride of this Shart as he turns to me and says, “Maybe you should get some Depends.”

I think to myself, now is the time, make what you say count and “No chance man, there is nothing wrong with a little bit of Shart, every once in awhile,” comes out. Success. I wash my hands and head out to the car to tell the news to my roommates.  I later figured out what happened that night and it was nothing exciting, and the reason I woke up naked wasn’t because I got laid, but I can not complain, at least I got a great Shart out of the deal.  But the real winner in this story is the random guy in the bathroom, now that man has a great story to share with the world.

The Greatest Birdie in the History of Golf?

Golfing has always been a passion of mine (kind of like Sharting).  The golf course I normal play just so happens to be right next to my house, which comes in handy on getting a quick round in anytime I can.   On a warm summer's night, I decided to go play a quick nine holes golf with my old man because I was bored and it was so damn beautiful outside.  The first six holes are going wonderfully, I am hitting ball well and just taking my dad to the woodshed.  I had zero idea that things were going to take a major turn for the worse. 

As we get to the 7th tee, nightfall is coming upon us quickly.  The green on 7th hole is the closest to our house, so sometimes we will quit after the 7th hole just for the convince of the walk home.  I look at my dad and ask him if he feels like going on after this hole seeing he is not playing the best and both the 8th and 9th hole are tough with water down both the fairways.  He however, wanted to keeping trucking on just to try and salvage the beating he was receiving from the clubs I was swing on this night.  I wanted to keep going because I had a real chance of shooting par. Little do I know my decision would be made for me very shortly.       

The 7th hole is long par five but with a slight bend to left.  So I decide to pull out the driver and let one rip, seeing as I was playing so well at this time so I figured I would be able to get to the green in two shots.  It just so happens I hit the worst shot of the day and my drive ends up going horribly left and leaves me in a patch of trees.  Knowing I would not be able to get the ball to the green in two shots I lay up to around 150 yards out.  As I start walking to my ball for the next shot, my stomach begins to ache, it was a feeling I can only describe as the feeling you get right before a giant fart.  I didn't even think twice about it and let that fart rip.  Everything went smoothly, great sound, great length, it was a fart to be proud of and for a while my stomach pain went away.  As I get up to my ball, the pain comes back.  So knowing the success of the last fart, I saw no reason that I could not have continued success with these farts.  So again I let it rip, again great sound, great length, but this one came surprise, it was the last thing I thought could have happened to me at this time.  

It was a glorious Shart, but at the worst possible time.  My dad just so happened to me standing next to me at this time, and saw the shear panic that went into my eye.  He asked me, "Son, what's wrong."  I played it off, "Nothing, nothing at all. That fart just snuck up on me."  Little did he know that I defiantly had a small amount of poop in my boxers.  There was no way that I was going to pick up my ball and head home at this point, I was in the middle of the fairway, with a good chance at birdie.  I take a few practice swings, and I can feel the wetness of the boxers sticking to my ass making me very uncomfortable, which you just don’t want before a big shot like this.   I try not to think about the Shart in my shorts right now and make my swing, and by god it looks good, really good.  It hits the green and sticks to about 5 feet away from the hole, part of me is excited for this great shot but I know something else is brewing up down there because that pain I had before has come back but increase significantly, I know at this point there is a full out shit coming along with this Shart.   As I am walking out to the green, it come more and more clear to me that this shit is coming on hard and coming on fast.  I know my time is running short and the last thing I want is for this glorious Shart in my pants to turn into a full shit, which is something not even our world’s most manly men can recover from.   I know that squatting down to read this putt is not an option anymore.  I quickly decide that taking the bag off to putt is not going to happen either.  As I am walking up to my ball on the green I pull the putter out of my bag, walking up to the ball and just quickly take my putt.  As it rolls slowly to the cup, I stared thinking, “Could this be…. Am I going to birdie after Sharting.”  Just as this is going through my mind, the putt drops into the cup.  For a slight moment I forgot about the situation I am in as the feeling of pure excitement for this birdie rushes over me.  I want to get my Tiger Woods on and give a big triumphant fist pump, but the feeling of dire need for a bathroom comes back.  I turn to my dad who is still 75 yards away from the green and yell in shear panic, “My ball is in the hole, play on without me, cause I am about to shit my pants.”  To this day I never heard my dad laugh as hard as he did at the moment.  I however, had an epic journey in front of myself.  I must penguin walk my ass home, clenching my cheeks together so hard as if it was my first night in prison.  My house seems so far away at this point, in my head I’m thinking, “I’m going to make it, I am going to make it,” then all of a sudden, “I am not going to make it, oh my god I’m going to shit myself.”  Then finally I get to sliding door at the back of my house, and the worst possible thing happens, IT IS LOCKED! I throw the clubs down on my deck and take of on dead sprint around my house and toward the garage, praying to whatever God was listing at this point, that it was going to be open and that someone was going to be home.  Luckily, the garage door is open and I sprint through there and into the house and straight to the bathroom.  I hear my mom say something to me and I instantly respond, “I SHARTED ON HOLE SEVEN AND IM GOING TO SHIT MY PANTS!”  I barley make it on to the can before the gates of hell spring open and let this evil out of my body.  Don’t worry though; I still took the time to look at my boxers to admire the voyage this Shart has taken me though and wonder, is this the greatest birdie in the history of golf.

Welcome

Welcome to The Chronicles of Shartia.  This blog is dedicated to the art of the Shart.  This is a place for people to come and share their experiences of Shart.  We at the Chronicles of Shartia have had plenty of experience with this phenomenon and as well have had many people share their stories with us.  We are not your normal people, when we meet someone new, we do not ask, "Hello. What is your name?"  No we ask, "Have you ever Sharted? And if is so please do tell."  What we hope to accoplish with this blog is to bring people to the positive side of Sharting and for the whole world to share their the Art of thier Sharts.