You Can't Beat the Fart Poem

I've got a friend by the names James Freid.

I love him dearly, but he certainly is an odd duck.

When I say this, I say it in the same way somebody would introduce their friendship with Groucho Marx, or Robin Williams.

James owns the Big Bell Ice Cream Company in the Twin Cities.

So every time one of the "Bomb Pop" trucks parks in front of your house, with that annoying calliope music covering a show tune hit from the 40's...you have him to blame.

James is also active in the Lions Club, and they seem to find him secure enough to be in charge of outsourcing cinnamon bread for their French Toast breakfast.

James in kind enough to buy his bread from me.

Last week he came in, stepped into my office and somehow we got on the topic of poetry....

I will paraphrase what Freid told me......

"My brother and I went to this organic farm festival not to long ago. He was really into this because he lives out in the country and had seen the direct result of how so many farmers are having a tough go of things. So at this conference, they had a part of the evening sectioned off where people walked up on stage and recited poems.

My brother was like the 8th or twelfth guy to go up there, and he did a really good job. He shared...as you can imagine, deep farmer thoughts, stuff about land-sky and corruption.

but later in the evening, I went up on stage and...."

James pauses, kinda grins, kinda smirks...then continues......

"I went up on stage and read my fart poem."

Now Freid actually laughs out loud, so much so....I had to close my office door.

I'm not sure if his story was meant to entertain me, or if he simply enjoyed reliving his brothers foiled experience.

Freid continued......

"Well he was kinda, well maybe not annoyed, but he certainly didn't understand how or why i would pick passing gas as a topic of for verse. Well the next day, the 2 of us were crossing the conventions floor, when somebody pointed in the direction of my brother and me. The person pointed and said THAT'S THE GUY WHO DID SUCH AN EXCELLENT JOB PREFORMING HIS POEM LAST NIGHT. So my brother smiles, and then steps forward to receive the accolades, but just as he began to raise his hand to act modest the person pointing the finger walked right passed him and over to me and said...OH MY GOD, YOU'RE THE FART POEM GUY, YOU WERE AWESOME!"

Freid sits down on one of my office chairs now and rifles through his wallet to find enough cash to pay off his invoice.

As he awkwardly thumbed through wrinkled bills, I had to ask.....

"So, did your brother ever get over being upstaged?"

Freid handed over a wad of cash and said.....

"Not really. The thing that really upset him is when he realized I was correct. You can't beat a fart poem."

I hate to agree with this, but Freid may be correct.



Here is the amazing celebration of
sophomoric American literature.
It is properly presented in a good
deep rich dramatic tone.


Demon Wind
By James V. Freid

It happened two yeas ago and you will see
The legend of it has never left the company

As I walked into my brother’s office I did not realize
That for years I would have to apologize
We chatted about something now forgotten
The meeting was about to turn rotten
Pressure swirled inside my bowels like a chained twister
I skillfully let some pressure out, quiet as a whisper
I had done it thousands of times previously
Any undesired scent could be fanned out easily
That day was different, things would not simply disperse
I must have been the subject of an unearthly curse
Whatever I hade eaten the day before
Bared no resemblance to the evil leaving my back door
This one was a demon creation, Satan’s beehive
Not silent and shy, it was quiet, but angry and alive
The rancid release shot up my shirt
A zombie’s hand thrust forth from the dirt
Like an errant match twists the hairs on your arm
The follicles in my nose curled, fearing immanent harm
It’s horrendous nature I could not deny
A tear welting up in my eye
My anus had given birth to the unwanted child
Of napalm and rotten eggs gone wild
My lungs shut themselves off to the outside air
Fearing the noxious cloud forming there
I wanted to flee the office now cage
Before the stench awakened my brothers rage
But it reached him in a dash
Speed that would rival the flash
Nerves send their signals at the speed of light
And the distance from nose to brain is very slight
His face twisted into an ugly vortex
Every muscle in his body a convulsive flex
I thought I had destroyed his ability to breath
He wasn’t very polite when he asked me to leave
I was happy to honor his request
Eager to get clean air in my chest
Out of the office my brother and I fled
Out to the parking lot his face turning red
All the while my he acted like I stabbed him in the heart
Believing I had somehow masterfully planned this fart
It was hours before the scent would subside
Easing out slower than a frozen tide
And while it happened ages ago
Its memory is leaving so very slow
I guess if the legend is never laid to rest
It only means that I produced the best.

THE END



James is typing ...