Pooveau riche

She stepped out onto the wide, long balcony, and felt the cold air beginning to be infused by the rays of the rising sun. Her skin tingled from the chill, and a sense of being vividly alive rushed from her ankles up through her spine and to her crown. Her arms rose, her shiver forgotten as the sun’s glorious radiance drew her into a wide and natural pose of gratitude. She smiled as she felt its warmth begin to envelope her. And she h- FLARRRPPP!! A huge, ripsnorting fart rang out from the balcony directly below, reminding her that though she was much richer these days, she was still poor enough to have to share these resorts with bumptious nouveau riche types. It was progress, but not progress enough. She resolved to keep working hard so as to be able to afford proper exclusivity. She thought she heard the guy (or even woman) on the balcony below sniffing up their own grunt. Yep, she thought. Still some work to do.

Property and freedom

As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives. Every wife had seven sacks. Every sack had seven cats. Every cat had seven kittens. Kittens, cats, sacks and wives, how m- PPFFFFLLLLLRRRBBB!!! Ahhhhh baby. Ahhh that was a fucking fart and a half! Oh, God. Actually, it really was a fart and a half : a little extra had come out. But hey, he was at home alone, so he could just go wash the brown muck out of his pants and sit on the loo for a proper go. Ah, he was enjoying the bachelor life. He might even just throw the pants away!