Boogers, Belches And Farts

The foul gasses of election politics expelled from beneath the lifted leg of our discourse cast an embarrassing blanket of stench on the future of the make-believe utopia we cling to. The public expulsion of our excrement, hanging like wet toilet paper, from the branches of our lofty self image becomes the horror of our dysfunctional family portrait as we reach out in arrogance to admonish those around us. We turn our mirrors to the dark side in order to look away from our own ugliness; believing ourselves invisible, we are not only blind but deaf to the rumbling indigestion of our gaseous saturation. Private bodily functions, common to all are deserving of far more dignified discretion but the mock-transparency of our degeneration seems to have entitled us to an open review of Pandora’s cess pool of endless bubbling repulsion. The sick craziness of our driven spirits, craving a dip in raw nuclear waste, we pretend ignorance to the consequences of nuclear fallout.

When the innocent accumulation of dried mucous has publicly digressed into the sport of booger-flicking, when the discrete release of swallowed gas has become a deep rumbling audible salami-scented, belly belch and when simple flatulence has become a loud steaming, wet fart, total embarrassment normally follows; as expected. But in childish ignorance we are drooling as we lace up our bibs, grip our silverware and bang on the table for more. Dinner is served America! A character-themed menu of the most disgusting collection of internally regurgitated entrees from the bottom of a commode-shaped serving trough, topped with a heaping helping of fermented fecal pudding. Just shoo the buzzing flies and enjoy your shotgun wedding feast!