It was another lonely Friday night movie marathon. I had just finished watching “Forrest Dump” and “The Secret Life of Walter Shitty.” Depressed by my solitude and inspired by the films, I decided it was time to do something more with my life. I wanted to be a fart of something. So I put down my poopcorn, refrigerated my fartichoke dip, and went for the door. I had the hole wide world in front of me.
I set course for down-town, having barely stepped out the door, when I had the good fortune of a brown cat cross my path. I knew today was different; there was a whiff of excitement in the air.
I tread deeper through the bowels of the city and came across a crowd of people making a big stink. They were protesting Brown Friday, despite the shitty-wide savings. This was exactly the sort of thing I wanted to be a fart of! I was immediately swept up in the mob. I joined in and judgementally, shamed the fat-cats and their brown-nosing cohorts. I tossed rocks through windows, chanted at the top of my lungs, bolstered up a picket sign, reading: Make Fart, Not War. Holy shit did I feel alive!
However, around quarter to poo things began to escalate. The cops grew aggressive. Caught up in everything, my response was the same. I turned and punched an officer in the face. I gave him a brown eye.
I turned and ran as fast as I could fucking run. The pigs were hot on my heels. I gave them a good run for their money but slipped on a patch of brown ice and fell right on my ass. Needless to say, the poolice apprehended me.
They dragged me kicking and creaming to the cop car. Luckily, I made a last minute wriggle and slipped out of their hold. I slipped into the shadows, like a fart in the wind. I stayed there for days until shit settled down. Exasperated, I was finally able to make my way home. I turned on my I-poo, toggled between N*Stync and Feart, and made the arduous trek back home.
Relieved, I finally returned home, but collapsed. With those revolutionary notions out of my system I decided that from then on I would never get caught up in that romanticized rebelliousness again, and just stick to my boring farts degree.
Fill in the field, reporting his doody.