Dance of the Sacred Fart

R. walked by the front of the car with a bag in his hand. He had a troubling smirk on his face, but he wasn’t running, so I didn’t panic. I took a cigarette out and lit it up just as he opened the door and farted loud enough for the sound to reverberate down the corridor of the street, and then, in a profound display of unselfconsciousness, he spanked his own ass a few times, did a surprisingly graceful pirouette (the combination of which he said was the Dance of the Sacred Fart), placed the bag on the floor in front of his seat and got in, while telling me that he and I were now officially fartners in crime.

“Fart if you have to, but no more crime,” I said, blowing smoke in his general direction.

“You should feel blessed, because the Dance of the Sacred Fart exorcises the stink from the pants.”

“You say that like it’s described in hieroglyphics on the inside of King Tut’s tomb.”

“Perhaps it is,” he replied as he handed me a phone card and I started going through the motions of getting it applied, oblivious to what was being laid out on the seat beside me: one box of Fundies, The Underwear for Two; one hash pipe; one box of vibrating condoms; one tube of Lust Lotion, The Anal Lube For Consummate Professionals; one X-rated comic book titled, Please Fuck Me In The Ass Before The Universe Collapses; two packages of Beedi Indian cigarettes; one pouch of chewing tobacco; one “travel sized” hookah.

“So what do you think?” he asked cheerfully.

I took another drag off my cigarette, this time blowing it down onto his purchases, “I think the border guards are gonna have a lot of fun confiscating this stuff, and even more fun giving us both digital rectal prostate exams.”

“No, no, no, this is all for Glenda; tokens of my appreciation…Except for the comic book.”

“Chewing tobacco?” I said, holding it up. “…Vibrating condoms? She’s not a mountain hooker.”

“What’s a mountain hooker?”

“Never mind, did you get me a shirt?”

“I was saving that for last,” he said as he held it up in front of me so that I could read what it said.

“What does it say above the arrow?”

He gave me a toothy grin, “I’m With Stupid.”

“You got me a Chinese I’m With Stupid shirt?”

“Yes, of course…It’s like the coolest thing ever made.”

“Sure it is, “ I said as I dialed Glenda’s number.

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