The Shit-Breath'd Farmer
Down at the local, we were all getting merrily pissed. Hobgoblin was the ale of choice and when ordering my fine ale a bearded man beside me muttered something.
I had no idea who he was, could tell he was extremely drunk from the way he slurred and swayed, and asked "what?"

A simple question you'd think.

He sat on a stool and leant forwards as if he hadn't heard me. 'Bah', I thought, 'just another piss-artist'.

After receiving my frothy pint, the local man turned and made these exact noises:

"Uh-ey-ooh-urghhh!"

The most comical belch I have ever heard. But still, I didn't smile. Hell, no. For as he belched a green gas emitted from his lips. I stepped back, but it was too late. The gas was hovering underneath my nostrils and I couldn't help but breathe it in.

Shit. The fragrant and ever-lovely smell of shit. But more so, the type of shit that just won't flush. No, more than that, the type of shit that just can't leave your body. The near-green shit that sits behind your anus and festers. Festers. Festers until you fart the most deadly smell. Festers until you burp that very same smell out of your lips, under your very own nose.
I promptly sat back down with my friends and hoped that I'd never meet the man again.

The man? I didn't speak to him again, thankfully, but only 20 minutes later he fell over at the bar. After being helped up, he stumbled to the bathroom where a witness claims he "put both hands in the urinals to steady himself".
After making a mess of the lavatories, the dung-breath'd farmer returned to the bar for another pint. He certainly was a trooper.
He fell over again as the barman refused to serve him and was shortly bundled out the door, never to be seen again.
( gazz, Fri 17 Sep 2004, 8:27, Reply)