I used to be embarrassed by my bookstore 'condition.' Bookstores are usually fairly quiet places and farts can ring out rather loudly. It's hard to be discrete about a fart when the whole store is dead silent until the sound of my bottom ripping a 132 decibel blast echoes off the rafters. And then there are the stares, typically from overly serious people with no social lives who are most often found hanging out in bookstores.
I had at some point noticed that bookstores have an unusually large number of lesbians in them. Perhaps this is because they have an entire section of books devoted entirely to female supremacist fascism, which they call the Women's Studies section, whereas nothing even remotely similar exists in any form or fashion for males.
No, the "entire rest of the store" is not just for males and isn't similar anyway.
Whatever the reason, I first noticed the bookstore lesbians when a very small crew-cut wearing person, dressed in 1980s style state trooper sunglasses, a denim sleaveless jacket over a tank top with denim jeans and work boots, began very aggressively hitting on my wife.
Some people say 'sexually molesting', I say 'hitting on.'
This Village People wannabe wedged herself between my wife and myself and tried as hard as she could to pretend that I was not there. When my wife spoke State Trooper Butch acknowledged it enthusiastically. When I spoke she pretended not to hear. She claimed to be an architect and insisted that she had built many houses in the area and wished to build one for my wife (but not for me, apparently.) She was lying, as she quickly demonstrated her lack of knowledge while conversing with her intended victim, but she was willing to say most anything to keep the conversation going.
"What? You like Star Wars? I was in that movie. I played Luke. Yep, that was me."
I was not enjoying the femo-nazi "experience" of having her attempt to climb my wife in the bookstore and was considering how I might render her unconcious without being caught on camera when I suddenly and unexpectedly released a fairly potent gaseous expulsion from my ass. As the sexual predator was practically standing on top of me when this occurred it was quite unavoidable that she inhaled a good bit of it.
For what it's worth, I myself have virtually no sense of smell whatever, but I am told that females generally have a highly acute sense of smell, even if those females wish to portray themselves as males. I cannot say if this is true or not, but I can say that the immediate response of the diminutive lesbian Village People state trooper architect rapist was to instantly remove herself from my presence. She made a rapid excuse to my wife, still not acknowledging my existence, and fled.
Oh happy day when I discovered the joy of flatulence!
Since that day I have found that my condition, while apparently incurable, can at least have its' uses. After accidently wandering into the Women's Studies section (Womyn's Studies in some bookstores) I decided to make this my designated release area. Any time I find anyone in this section of the bookstore it has always been either a very angry looking woman who communicates to me in various ways that I am not welcomed there, or else it is some guy who appears to be lost. Either way, I browse the latest editions of the hate and the lies while waiting for the gases to release themselves so that I might return to where I had been before.
Oh, there are those who criticize me for this, saying I am committing some sort of hate crime against man-hating womyn, but I beg to differ. I have used this time to enlighten myself with the progressive writings of such authors as Catherine MacKinnon, Andrea Dworkin, Susan Faludi, Patricia Ireland, Gloria Steinem, and Marilyn French. I have even taken notes, particularly of their insistence that the purpose of the women's movement is not equal rights, but "the destruction of white, European males, capitalism, and the Christian Church." I have noted the blind faith in Marxism and Maoism. But most of all I have noted the hatred, the blind, spewing hatred.
I can't help it if I fart uncontrollably in bookstores. If I could I wouldn't do it. But seeing as I have been afflicted with this condition I might as well use it to expose those who would embrace murderous hatred to the stench of their own religion. Perhaps somewhere in their brains a connection will form, a connection between the blind hatred of one entire gender and the smell of my ass? I can't really say. But I can hope.
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