The Absurd Epistolary Adventures of the Astonishing FartMan chronicles the amusing escapades
of the lovable, stinky, and obnoxious Cape & Tights Super Hero, and his maudlin Alter Ego, W____,
as they learn to cope with Stage IV colon cancer, each other, and their annoying fellow human beings.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Stand Clear and Cover Your Eyes

From: W____
To: B___ and N____
Sent: Groundhog's Day
Re: Happy Birthday to J_____!

Happy Birthday to J___ E_____J______!

We wish we could be there, and we will be there soon to celebrate her birthday all over again. Meanwhile, give her a hug and a kiss from Uncle W_____ and Aunt S____. And give E___ a hug and a kiss for us, too.

I'm feeling great--thanks for asking. I was just saying to S____ how silly it seems for me to be laying around in this hospital bed with a tube sticking out of my pee pee hole when I feel so dern good.

T. A. is having a blast, flirting with the nurses, telling them a minimum of seven bad jokes a minute, and thumbing the "bonus button" on the pain pump the second the ready light comes on. I'm getting zero sleep, while he nods off constantly and leaves me to worry about keeping the epi line, and the IV line, and the pulse/respi monitor line from getting all tangled up. I've tried explaining to the doctors and nurses that I'm the Alter Ego and he's the Cape & Tights Super Hero, and that's why they're seeing these wild swings in our behavior, not to mention the wild swings in our blood pressure. We usually try to avoid showing up at the same place at the same time, but maintaining that separation is not easy to do when you're stuck in what they call "the hospital setting." The staff pyschiatrist suggests they cut back the dilaudid in the pain pump.

The holdup on getting discharged (and you'll love this): One of the criteria for discharge is that the patient must pass gas to demonstrate that the Number Two plumbing line is open for business. But, at this moment of truth, T. A. FartMan, whose ethereal emanations have heretofore stampeded elephants and summoned great whales, cannot, or will not, produce even one silent little odorless fart.

Oh, when it does happen, all I can say is . . . .


My Love to the Kiddies,
Uncle W____


From: W____
To: Big List
Sent: February 3, 2012, 7:45 PM
Re: Getting Outa Here!

Hey Everybody,

We're right now in the process of being discharged and will sleep in our own bed tonight! Everything went better than expected. I feel better than I have in a long time. Probably start chemo in a month or so, but I can do that in my sleep. (In fact, that's how I usually do it.)

Thanks for the prayers. I guess they worked!


Sunday, January 8, 2012

A Deep Draught of the Eternal

From: W_____
Sent: Jan. 8, 2012 3:50 AM
To: T. A. FartMan
Subject: A Syllogism

It's almost two in the morning.

My darling is in bed, sleeping fitfully. I rubbed her feet a little and that helped calm her some. She's worried about me.

I was having trouble sleeping, too. There's too much to think about, too much I can't help thinking about. When I toss and turn, it keeps her awake. So I've gotten up.

Not so long ago, if my tossing and turning were keeping her awake, she would have taken her favorite pillow downstairs to spend the night in the guest room. But lately she's been sticking it out. I think she stays the night with me because she senses that I need her there beside me . . . or maybe she senses a sad truth that we might not have that many more nights in our bed together.

So I'm up, writing this . . . because it might give her a chance to drift off, and then I can slip back into bed after she's fallen asleep. And it's a good time for me to put down a few thoughts that have been aching to come out:

Lately I think often about my father, what he was like when I was a very young child, my first memories of him. He is the gentlest father with the most tender heart. He loves us children so much and would do anything to spare us from suffering. My illness crushes him with sadness. Since I've been ill, he's worried about my soul, because he thinks I'm not a Christian. Don't worry, Dad. I'll be alright. One of my first memories of my father was when I was barely old enough to sleep outside a crib. I was having a nightmare. I cried in terror. My father came. I told him I was scared. He laid down with me, and held me, and I felt safe. That's my idea of what God is like, our Heavenly Father.

So I don't know if I'm a Christian. Most Christians probably wouldn't think so, but who knows? Judge not.

Here's what I do believe, which I suppose is not incompatible with being Christian:

The human spirit is immortal.

Some people might ask, "What evidence do you have for that miraculous idea?"

I have several ways to answer, but right now the one I would give is that the very existence of the human soul is itself an incredible miracle, and we each have ample evidence of the existence of our own miraculous soul precisely in our own consciousness of our own existence. That I can write this sentence and that you can have some comprehension of it is just a very small piece of all the evidence of the miraculousness of human consciousness. So beginning from the obvious miracle of the existence of the human soul--that glorious thinking, feeling, speaking, writing, singing, loving, beautiful, beauty-making thing--it's no addition to incredibility to suppose, to believe, that such a miraculous thing will not be destroyed.

Some people might say, "Just because the soul itself is a beautiful miracle does not make it eternal. We see things destroyed every day. Beautiful things. Beautiful flowers fade and die. People fade and die."

Yes, we see that all physical things come into existence, change, and pass out of existence. Physical things are destroyed every moment. But we have never seen the destruction of a soul. So why should we not believe that such a miraculous thing as the soul should have the additional and compatible characteristic of being eternal? Why should we believe that a miracle is not eternal? It makes rather good sense that a miracle, if such a thing exists, would be eternal. So why should we not believe that something we know already to be miraculous, the glorious soul, is eternal?

Here's my syllogism for the logicians to take apart if they want to: All miracles are eternal. The soul is a miracle. Therefore, the soul is eternal.

Two things that might make you laugh, but which to me are more proof of the eternal miracle of the human soul:

I love the way my wife smells. I don't mean her smell when she's wearing perfume, although that, too, is lovely. No, I mean the way she smells when she wakes up in the morning, before she brushes her teeth, when there's still crust in her eyes, when she smells a little "rustic," or the way she smells after she's been exercising, or when she hasn't bathed for a day or two. When she's in my arms, I will sometimes close my eyes and surreptitiously take in a deep draught of her smell. That smell makes me feel safe and happy and blessed. Yes, my darling wife's body will fade and die, but that odor which gives me such peace and joy is eternal. Don't laugh too much, because I am not kidding about that.

The other thing that might make you laugh is that these thoughts about the immortal human soul and the miracle of my wife's smell, thoughts which I've thought over many times, re-entered my mind most recently while I was sitting on the pot, and it was then, while sitting on the pot, that I determined to try to write these things down. Isn't that hilarious? Now some people might think that coincidence detracts from the dignity or beauty of the ideas I'm trying to get across. Well, okay, I'm sorry if you think that. You must never forget that I am the alter ego of The Astonishing FartMan. But seriously, I'm telling nothing but the truth, and perhaps there's a lesson in there somewhere about how we should think about our physical existence.

So here's the thing. My last CEA was 9.7. My last two scans show a spot growing on my liver. And, apart from the sorts of tests doctors can do, I feel, physically, like my insides are quite messed up, tangled up, sore, and getting worse. Eating causes distress, as do most other ordinary physical activities. I soldier on, ignoring as much as possible of the physical distress, yet it is inevitable for a person like me that I cannot help but think about my possibly impending demise, what that might mean for me and for my wife.

It is difficult to have and to face such thoughts, especially when there's a good bit of physical distress to cope with at the same time. Most people, I believe, try to avoid such thoughts. Most people, I believe, would advise me to avoid such thoughts, too. Very few people would want to have a chat with me about them. They would think it would be rude of them to discuss such things in my presence. Instead they'd say, "Don't think like that! You're going to be fine." This is what is called "encouragement." And for some people in my situation, I suppose such words are encouraging. But sometimes that kind of encouragement can leave one feeling as if one is left all alone to deal with inevitable thoughts by oneself because nobody else wants to talk or even think about such a difficult subject. I understand.

Yet maybe for others who might be in a situation like mine, they might find some help and solace in what I've written. I understand how their emotions are so very intense and so very close to the surface every moment. I understand how they wish, as I do, more than anything to receive and to express love, to see and to hear and to smell beauty, to create beauty, to feel peace. I understand how the physical reality of illness complicates the fulfillment of that wish, yet we do fulfill it. I understand that the wish itself is the fulfillment of the wish, that the wish fulfills itself . . . in eternal love.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Presto Pesto!

A comment lately posted on MichelleOnLongIsland's cancer blog:

The Astonishing FartMan said...

What a tough time you're going through. In my mind, my hand is smoothing your brow. Is it working? How I hope so!

And how sad it seems that sometimes we fragile and puny humans must resort to hopes and prayers. Well, I say hopes and prayers and love and good will are still the most powerful things. So I'm saying a prayer of thanksgiving that you have such a good husband.

I know what you mean about the knife fantasy--your fantasy that some mugger would do you the unintentional favor of stabbing you to cut out the tumor on your spine. I sometimes have a fantasy that I could take a hollow stick and poke it into my "hepatic subcapsular fluid collection" (AKA
Cappy) and drain it away. When I poke in the stick, bilious green sauce squirts everywhere, and it totally blows everybody's mind, so they all think I'm possessed, and they want to call in a priest to do an exorcism. The priest comes, and he's Italian, so he says, "He's not possessed, but this green biloma sauce makes a very nice pesto."

I hope that makes you laugh!

I also know what you mean about doing "normal" stuff. I take great pleasure in my Wednesday evening routine of gathering up the trash from all the household cans and putting them out for collection in the morning. It's one of my silly "manly" chores, and I wonder who will do them when I'm gone. Of course, my wife can take out the trash, but can she change the A/C filters, negotiate with the auto mechanic, fix the the computer or TV when something gets out of whack? I suppose life will take care of itself just fine when I'm gone. But I do worry about my dear sweet wife. And I hope that when I'm gone she finds a good, gentle (and preferably, younger!) man to help her with the "manly" chores, but mostly to keep her company when she's an old lady.

(Yes, I know I'm not suposed to think about such things, but am supposed to accept the assurance, so often pressed upon me, that I'm cured. And, of course, that would be nice. But just in case I'm not cured, on the off chance, the very small chance, the infinitesimal possibility, that all the weird stuff going on inside my guts lately--and the undeniably high 5.4 of my last CEA--is the recurrence that everyone tells me will not happen, well I just don't want the shock of a surprise, so I gotta think about it now.)
How beautiful that you're so weak and so strong at the same time!

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

The Seven-Thousand-Six-Hundred-and-Forty-Second Woman.

From: W_____
Sent: Nov. 2, 2011 10:00 AM
To: T. A. FartMan <>
Subject: All the News That's Fit to Spit

Hey T.A.,

Didja see this one?
September 5, 2017, WASHINGTON -- A seven-thousand-six-hundred-and-forty-second woman has now alleged that President Herman Cain made her "feel uncomfortable" when he was president of the National Restaurant Association in the mid-1990s. Although the woman, who wishes to remain anonymous, concedes that her allegations are "not exactly of a sexual or sexual harassment nature," she said she believes she "has a duty as a citizen and as a federal employee" to speak up so the American people will know that Herman Cain is not as nice in person as he seems to be on TV.

In a written statement her lawyer read to reporters, the woman said, "It's just not right that Herman Cain has made me and seven-thousand-six-hundred-and-forty-one other women feel uncomfortable, yet everybody still seems to think he's such a good guy. Well, I'm here to set the record straight." The woman's lawyer, who also wishes to remain anonymous, suggested that Cain's discomfiting behavior might have involved hand-gestures, insensitive remarks about female height and weight, hotel rooms, and "lots of other kinds of things you'd expect to hear about Herman Cain."

The lawyer for the seven-thousand-six-hundred-and-forty-second woman said his client had made a good faith effort to resolve the dispute privately to avoid publicity, but had not received a reply to any of the dozens of anonymous emails she had sent to President Cain. Many experts with experience investigating such claims say it is not unusual for a person guilty of sexual harassment to refuse to respond to an accuser's emails. According to Emily Knickerwad, an independent workplace claims investigator for the Women Victims Action Network, "It's all part of the abuser's sick power trip, to ignore his victims' pleas for help after he's emotionally injured them." 
When asked if his client's allegations would feature canned soda pop or curly unattached body hair, the lawyer for the seven-thousand-six-hundred-and-forty-second woman said, "The answer to that question will have to wait until the facts we intend to allege have a chance to come out in dribs and drabs. Herman Cain's victims should not be expected to give away the details of their claims all at once, when he won't even answer their emails."
I figured you'd enjoy reading my little spoof, seeing as how you, and me, and Herman Cain share so much in common, the three of us having been through Stage IV Colon Cancer with Liver Mets, and the three of us having made several women feel uncomfortable at some point during the last fifty years. (But please don't tell anyone I wrote this "story" 'cause I'd like to hang on to my day job. People will forgive me a certain quantity of political incorrectness, me with the semi-terminal CC and all, but there is a limit.)

BTW: When I was chatting with Mr. Cain at the Clear Lake TEA Party rally last week , he asked me to tell you how disappointed everyone was that you weren't able to make it back to Houston in time to perform a ceremonial flyover for the opening festivities. Don't worry. I covered for ya and told him you were busy handling crowd control ops for CIA in Libya. (That is where you've been, right?)

Sorry to have been so incommunicado lately. Been going through a kinda rough patch--the daily battle with Cappy (who just won't stay dead) and a year of CIPN have worn me down. Meanwhile my CEA has been creeping up, to just barely above normal. But I'm still here, dammit. After having been onc-less since Dr. Brain-Must fired me at the end of June, I finally got an appointment with a new onc in a couple of weeks. Prolly not great to have been onc-less for four months right after finishing chemo. On the other hand if I'm gonna have a quick recurrence, it might as well be real quick and be done with it. Hey, it could be worse--we could be sleeping on a cardboard sign in Zuccotti Park.

In case you're wondering, all is forgiven. It always is.

And I remain . . . .

Your Loyal Alter Ego,


Monday, September 19, 2011

If You Have to Explain It, How Funny Can It Be?

From: T. A. FartMan
Sent: September 19, 2011 4:03 AM
To: W_____
Subject: Of Coyotes and Road Runners

Dear W_____,

When I read this piece by Christopher Hitchens, I thought of you and me and S____.

It seems that humor is a formidably serious subject, so much so that Hitchens must write 1500 words to explain an old joke, the oldest, cruelest, stalest, most unfunny joke ever, which is the eternal battle of the sexes.

It is often said that anger interferes with the ability to think. To the contrary, anger concentrates thinking intensely . . . toward revenge! It's laughter that hinders thinking. Laughter disarms precisely because one cannot remain angry while laughing, but more precisely because one cannot think (about revenge!) while laughing.

Wit is always cruel. A joke, unlike you white people, always has a butt. Hobbes, not wrongly, defined laughter as the involuntary expression of a feeling of "sudden glory" upon the observation of someone else's misery, humiliation, or deformity. Even supposedly self-deprecating humor is cruel, the cruelest, because the table-turning martyr tricks his audience into playing the role of a laughing sadist. The cruelest thing, and the funniest, is to make someone else appear haplessly cruel. Thus, the philosopher's irony, the highest form of humor, is the form of humor most cruel toward one's fellow human beings--a substitute for the physical injury the philosopher is too lazy, too cowardly, or too uncaring to inflict. (Every law student, if they weren't all such 5FUing idiots, would identify the professor's purportedly ironic purportedly Socratic method neither as a teaching tool, nor as a rhetorical strategy, but as revenge extracted in advance.)

Because humor both disarms and wounds, nothing can be more frustratingly infuriating than to be made the butt of a joke. We all know this truth--learned from the playground mob--although the wiser among us pretend otherwise. With ears on fire, we laugh along, so that we might plot revenge without exciting suspicion. Nothing infuriates more than to see oneself made the butt of a joke, unless it is one's own joke, i.e., a joke about a martyred saint or a philosopher, in which cases one pretends to be the victim.

Humor is always duplicitous: deceptive, even deceitful, yet revelatory. It makes unspeakable truth speakable, civilizing the cruelty of truth within the dubious poetry and perfume of the absurd: the sound of cannon and the whiff of powder and a loud, smelly, perfectly synchronized fart. Humor absolutely requires a confusion of the cruel and the ridiculous. To sense the confusion is to "get" the joke. Of those who can't quickly sort out that confusion, we say they don't get the joke.

The best humor is that of which the ones laughing think they have sorted out the confusion, but have not, while the ones not laughing think there's nothing worth sorting out. The best humor inspires no false laughter. Either they get the joke, or they think they get the joke, or they don't get the joke and don't care, or they don't think there's a joke to be got, but no one pretends to get it. No one chuckles politely, and no one chuckles nervously from feeling left out. No one feels indignant, unless that's what's wanted.  The best humor is that of which only a very sad few can get the joke.

The best humor commonly arouses indignation or boredom, because one or the other of two necessary elements, either truth or ridiculousness, although present, appears to be absent: indignation, if truth appears to have been neglected, because false ridicule seems malicious to good people, especially when aimed at themselves; boredom, if ridicule appears to have been left out, because truth unadorned with ridicule seems tiresome to most people, especially when aimed at themselves.

(Even truth adorned with beauty seems tiresome to almost everyone. Of course, most of us deny this accusation as to ourselves, as I do. We deny the accusation because we don't realize that what we perceive as beautiful is not beautiful but ridiculous, if not in itself, then in our perception of it. Unfortunately, even the absurdity of our perception of beauty will not always be sufficient to prevent our frequently becoming bored by it, probably because there is so much of it around. That we are not all of us permanently irredeemably bored by beauty is the Astonishing thing . . .  one of the great mysterious unaccountable blessings. So worry not! There are many, many, many failings much, much, much worse than having no sense of beauty, so long as you have a sense of humor about it . . . and so long as you keep up a longing for it, even if you haven't the faintest idea what it is you're longing for.)

The very best humor is that of which only the jokester himself gets the joke, the cut so sharp that the wound is painless or seems insignificant, and heals instantly, but leaves its victim unsettled and forever altered in ways he will not easily perceive, similar to the experience of having been abducted by aliens. The very best humor manifests the philosopher's irony as his highest practical virtue, which is his utter uselessness.

The very best humor is at least doubly duplicitous . . .  just like we are,  you and me,  W___ and The Astonishing One, the Loyal Long-Suffering Alter Ego and his One and Only Cape & Tights Super Hero, you and me.

And I remain . . .

Your Melodious and Malodorous,
T.A. FartMan

PS. Along the same lines, here's a "beautiful piece of heartache," to encourge a "healthy apathy":

Latter Days *
What a beautiful piece of heartache this has all turned out to be.
Lord knows we've learned the hard way all about healthy apathy.
And I use these words pretty loosely.
There's so much more to life than words.
There is a me you would not recognize, dear. Call it the shadow of myself.
And if the music starts before I get there dance without me. You dance so gracefully.
I really think I'll be o.k. They've taken their toll these latter days.
Nothin' like sleepin' on a bed of nails. Nothin' much here but our broken dreams.
Ah, but baby if all else fails, nothin' is ever quite what it seems.
And I'm dyin' inside to leave you with more than just cliches.
There is a me you would not recognize, dear. Call it the shadow of myself.
And if the music starts before I get there dance without me. You dance so gracefully.
I really think I'll be o.k. They've taken their toll these latter days.
But tell them it's real. Tell them it's really real.
I just don't have much left to say.
They've taken their toll these latter days.
They've taken their toll these latter days.

* Lyrics by Linford Detweiler from Over the Rhine's song "Latter Days" on the album Good Dog Bad Dog. You should buy it, either the original 1996 release or the live 2010 version.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Delayed Report from Comic-Con

From: T. A. FartMan
Sent: Aug 2, 2011 11:25 PM
To: W_____
Subject: Maybe or Maybe Not

Dear W_____,

Seeing the other Cape & Tights Super Heroes strutting around in their best underwear at Comic-Con last week got me thinking:

Maybe my last email was a little offhand and dismissive, maybe on purpose, mabye because offhand and dismissive seemed better than fiery and furious--how I felt reading your email giving me grief about the haboob. I've been catching enough flack lately from everybody else, so it didn't help for you, my Very Own Alter Ego, to join in the potshots.

Doncha think I was listening when our Very Own Wife said to you the other day, "My Very Own Husband, sometimes I think I don't even know you at all any more"? She called it "the FartMan Nonsense." She asked you, "Why, of all the online personae you could have come up with, why FartMan? Why the FartMan Nonsense?"

You didn't answer, you didn't stick up for me, you only shrugged . . . .

You don't seem to understand:  Just like you didn't ask for colon cancer, they didn't let me pick and choose my super powers either. It's not my fault mine happen to be what they are. It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's a perfectly normal human function . . . intensified to an Astonishing degree, a provenance that gives my super powers a heckuvalot more credibility than the mutant, beastly, or alien powers certain other Cape & Tights Super Heroes claim to possess.

So doncha think ordinary folks, if they weren't all such 5FUing idiots, would be able to identify more close and intimate with an everyday Super Hero like me, whose every super power derives from that basic necessary bodily function cosmically and comically symbolic of an essential quality of our shared humanity, viz, that we are . . .

. . . for now . . . at least . . . in part . . . stuck . . .

. . . in that portion of reality where everything, ourselves included, is always coming into existence and passing out of existence, while we yearn for something more permanent and, awaiting something more permanent, yearn in this life to be understood well by at least one somebody? (I suppose it's the yearning that makes us human. And I suppose that same universal yearning is also kinda selfish, with its willingness to sacrifice almost anything, including itself, for its own satisfaction.) So we say, "Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust," which is merely a yearningly poetic way of saying, sighing, "Manure is a fundamental building block of life on earth, and our bodies are as ephemeral as a tiny little silent fart." Don't blame me. I didn't design things that way. If it were left up to me, maybe we'd all live forever, and maybe no one would ever get constipated. Maybe. Or maybe not.

So a lot of people say, "FartMan is such an egoist, calling himself Astonishing and trumpeting his superiority all over town." Well, let me ask you, if I'm so arrogant, how many other people have the humility to acknowledge their own FartManHood? That's not bragging, because I don't claim any special ability that everybody else doesn't have, just that mine has been extended (some would say "dragged out") to its furthest human limits, with an unexpected twist or punch at the end.

Unlike the SuperMan and SpiderMan types, who purport themselves to exercise powers that would belong more properly to a god or to an animal than to a fellow human being, I'm really just a very regular guy. (No pun intended.) Take flying for example. Didncha ever wonder how it is that SuperMan can fly? He has no discernable means of propulsion! His aerial locomotion violates the laws of physics! What? Like some god, he wills himself along through the air? But when I, The Astonishing One, take flight, the way I get where I'm going is as obvious as the nose on your face. (Again, no pun intended.)

When I chatted with SuperMan at Comic-Con, he wasn't hovering or levitating or floating in mid-air. He wasn't even suspended in a basket a few feet off the ground. Nope. He was walking around on his own two feet like the rest of us. And his outfit needed dry-cleaning. So that's all I'm going to say about it, except that, if you were wanting an apology, this will have to do.

I remain . . .

Your Melodious and Malodorous Super Hero,
T.A. FartMan

P.S. Some news you're not going to like, even though it's not entirely unexpected: Cappy has reappeared, back from the dead, so it seems. He was there at Comic-Con, lurking off to the side the way he always does. He's still looking sickly and greenish, and still trying to pass himself off as a seroma, when I'm betting he's of a deadlier species. He pretends to be innocuous, but then when you let your guard down, he puts a shiv through your kidney. We're working on finding a way to get rid of him permanently . . . again.

Monday, July 18, 2011

All the Perfect Drugs and Super Heroes

From: T. A. FartMan
Sent: July 18, 2011 10:03 AM
To: W_____
Subject: Our Theme Song

Hey W___,

Sorry 'bout the dustup over Phoenix the other day. I've explained to Bowel Boy that he can't just let loose like that near a populated area.

Even though the AZ Haboob wasn't exactly my fault, I wanna make amends with you. So here's a little goodwill gesture. If you haven't heard of Aimee Mann, then introducing you to her music is one of the best favors I could do for you, or for anybody.

Click here to listen to a clip from the Official T. A. FartMan Theme Song, Humpty Dumpty, from Aimee Mann's album Lost in Space.

An excerpt of the first lines of lyrics:
Say you were split, you were split in fragments
And none of the pieces would talk to you,
Wouldn't you want to be who you had been?
Well baby I want that too.

So better take the keys
And drive forever.
Staying won't put these

Futures back together.
All the perfect drugs

And Super Heroes
Wouldn't be enough

To bring me up to zero.

Baby, you're great. You've been more than patient,
Saying it's not a catastrophe.
But I'm not the boy you once put your faith in,
Just someone who looks like me.
Fits you and me just about perfect, doncha think?

Now you owe me one!

T. A. FartMan

P.S. Here's a link to a fun video of Aimee performing the song live, with a little help from the audience: Fans Help on Humpty Dumpty.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

"Haboob" Does Not Mean "Oops" in Arabic

From: W_____
Sent: July 9, 2011 11:05 AM
To: T. A. FartMan
Subject: You and BB Flying Out of the Haboob

Dammit all, FartMan, this time you might have finally blown it.

Have you seen the photos they got of you and your new sidekick, Bowel Boy, flying side-by-side out of that haboob over Phoenix last week? (Here's a link to the news story with the pictures.)

Yes, I know, just like always you'll come up with some half-ass excuse to avoid responsibility. You'll say you were just taking Bowel Boy out over the desert for his first training flight. You'll say nobody could have anticipated how powerful the little fella's poots would turn out to be.

Well, don't try to blame this dust up on BB. I've been around you long enough to know exactly what happened: You had to start showing off for your new sidekick. You just couldn't help yourself, could you? So it all started innocently enough, with you demonstrating the Astonishing Subtlety and Variety of your poots and bragging about how many thousands of feet high you can soar on a single blast.

Two and half beers later, whoooosh!!!!!, there's a 100-mile wide fart storm engulfing half the population of Arizona.

That's pretty much how it went down, right? That's the way it always goes with you. It always starts with you talkin' smack, and it always ends with some kind of previously unheard of unnatural disaster.

And now you act like it's no big deal, like "haboob" just means "Oops, excuse me, I farted," in Arabic.

(I don't wanna know, so please don't tell me, if you've already been teaching Bowel Boy the "flatulentio ignitio." How could we live with ourselves if your carelessness set off all those wildfires out west last month!?!?)

Lucky for you, the authorities at Roswell and Area 51 are so fixated on the aliens that they haven't been able to pinpoint you and The Cutest Little Thing as the obvious culprits. Good thing your haboob wasn't a very smelly one, or the feds would already be knocking on our door. The lawsuits would have put TAF Enterprises out of business, and you'd personally be looking at jail time for reckless endangerment, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, unathorized emission of a noxious substance, and who knows what all else.

Don't get me wrong. I'm So Happy You Ditched Cappy as your sidekick that I could write a song about it. Yes, I had warned you that hiring Cappy was huge mistake in the first place, but that's all done and over, so there's no point rehashing. I'm also thrilled you chose Bowel Boy to replace Cappy. BB is such a big step up for you. All the other Cape & Tights Super Heroes keep telling me how they can't help loving the little fella, 'cause he's just so dern cute and sweet. But could you please try to be more careful the next time you take him out farting around?

One last thing. Forgive me if I'm stepping over the line by saying this: I think it would do us both good if you would sleep more and drink less, as I remain  . . . .

Your Loyal Alter Ego,


Thursday, July 7, 2011

Introducing: "The Cutest Little Thing"

TAF Enterprises, Inc.

in conjunction with

Bubbles Toy Company


T. A. FartMan's
All New Sidekick


(AKA "The Cutest Little Thing")

Pricing: $25,000 ea. (volume discounts available)

Wholesale inquiries only, to:

TAF Enterprises, Inc.
One FartMan Plaza
10001 Main St.
Houston, TX 77002

Sunday, July 3, 2011

The Astonishing FartMan Action Figure

TAF Enterprises, Inc.

in conjunction with

Bubbles Toy Company


The Astonishing FartMan
Action Figure

Pricing: $25,000 ea. (volume discounts available)

Wholesale inquiries only, to:

TAF Enterprises, Inc.
One FartMan Plaza
10001 Main St.
Houston, TX 77002