Gassed

Bruce Clark’s head snapped about as if he didn’t know where he was at. That’s because he didn’t.

The last thing Bruce recalled was sitting on his couch, passing horrendous clouds of gas. That’s when it struck him; he had finally farted so badly he had literally gassed himself to death.

“Why else would I be in Yuppy-hell, standing in line at Starbucks?” he posed.

Bruce was eighth in line, so he had enough time to assess his situation. That’s when it dawned on him: he’d much rather be standing in line at McDonald’s.

“At least there, I could get one of those mitten cups that’s actually a pole-dancer spreading her ass-cheeks.”

Without having moved, it was suddenly his turn at the counter. That’s when all manner of hell broke loose on Bruce Clark’s self-induced, noxious nightmare of eternal damnation.

As the female barista began to speak, she barked as if she were a dog. And like other dogs, it didn’t take much encouragement for those behind the counter and who had previously had their faces buried in their iPhones and other devices, to join in.

As the barking reached a nerve-shattering crescendo, Bruce jumped back into his poisoned reality. At first he thought he’d been dreaming, but then he could smell the lingering effects of having ripped a toxic terror, plus his poodle was yapping fiercely in his left ear.

“Good boy, Killer,” he cooed towards the dog as it bounced from the floor to the couch then the back door.

As Bruce Clark got up from his stained leather couch to release his would-be heroic K-9 on the outside world, he couldn’t help laugh, “Dog’s are immune to such brain-melting shit – after all they lick their asses all the time.”

He closed the door, heading to the kitchen to pour another cup of four-day old coffee.

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