A Retelling of the Burning Ass Hair Dance
Some of you old timers may have heard this one, it is right up there with the "Hindenbag Saga" which I may get around to retelling another day (if I can find the pics...the awful, awful, extremely disturbing, awful pics).
In the summer of 1994 I was a happy 24 year old making a decent buck working my first real corporate sales job, and living with 4 of my buddies in the "happening" section of Rochester NY (Park and Culver). I had the youthful stamina to go out drinking almost every night and typically consumed enough illegal drugs on the weekends to tranquilize a rhinoceros. Kurt Cobain had just blown his brains out a few months before, the bodies of Nicole Brown and Ronald Goldman were barely cold and MDMA was pure and plentiful. As a young Gen Xer my interests naturally turned to Pogs, Nintendo Game Boy, my extensive flannel collection and...lighting farts.
My god-given farting abilities were greatly enhanced by a diet that consisted mainly of beer, beef and cheese. I could routinely belt them out with great sound, fury, stench and duration. My distinct odor was well known by my housemates and the ridiculous number of house-guests we regularly entertained. I was quickly becoming a local farting legend. It was all fun and games until the great fart lighting debate of 1994.
Is it possible? Would it hurt? Does the fire alter the flavor? The drunken argument continued until the wee hours of the morning and came to climax just as the effects of the ecstasy and the Nick Tahou's garbage plate I had consumer earlier were conspiring to transform my bowels into a high powered flatulence factory. The last beer was offered as a reward to the person that could prove that farts are flammable. I like beer and challenges, and six inches of blue fire shot out of my ass on the very first attempt!
I had found a new passion. I was lighting up to twenty farts a day. I found myself obsessed with baked beans, cabbage and beer...lots of beer. Crowds gathered, people cheered, and the legend grew. I became an expert as I mastered various smells, colors, ignition devices and underwear. I discovered I could shoot two feet of hot orange and blue fire out of my ass on a Saturday morning with a barbecue lighter. I switched from boxers to tighty whities, drank at least a 12 pack of dark beer every night and consumed copious amounts of sauerkraut and bratwurst at every opportunity. I found a tight pair of dirty sweat pants were spectacular as the plume of burning flatulence would ignite the lint clinging to the material and my whole ass would burn like the sun. Gentle puffs, machine gun thunder, and butt ripping barn owl farts all combusted violently and my anus was known far and wide as an incredible thing a beauty, awe and wonder. Unfortunately, these were days before YouTube and cell phone cameras, so my fiery free floating anal vapor exploits were never captured electronically to be enjoyed or emulated by future generations.
When I wasn't lighting farts, I spent a lot of time with my girlfriend. While she didn't encourage my burning bean blowing habit, she knew better than to try to get me to stop cold turkey. She occasionally suggested I cut back a bit or maybe restrict my fart lighting to just the weekends. While I wouldn't call her a fan of my recently developed skill, she was as least tolerant. While the relationship was more of a summer fling, I will always remember this girl as the lone witness of the last fart I ever lit.
One steamy June or July night we attended a concert at the Rochester War memorial. The band was Soundgarden supporting their latest release "Superunknown" on "The Day We Tried to Live" tour. The show was amazing, and afterward we grabbed a bite to eat (pickled onions and hard boiled eggs for me of course), went back to my place and had amazing drug and alcohol fueled monkey sex. I may be a twisted fuck, but I am also a gentleman and would never embarrass my girl by farting in public or during the sex act. As we lay there enjoying the aftermath of mind blowing copulation, I suddenly felt an urgency in my lower colon that I had been suppressing the entire evening.
I quickly scrambled out of bed bare ass naked and grabbed the red mini Bic from my dresser. I lifted one leg off the ground and flicked the flint wheel producing flame as close as possible to my exposed exit door. My rump roared with the stale wind I had been saving up throughout the night. Flame shot out of my ass so far it burned my ankle. It was a masterpiece of smoldering brown thunder, but I had made one fatal miscalculation. Throughout my short but illustrious career of burning butt bugling, I had never done it naked.
I am a fairly hairy man of mostly Italian decent. The combusting colonic calliope lit ablaze not only the flatulent, but the disgusting thickets of matted, sweaty manhair that covered by ass, back and balls. My ass and scrotum were literally on fire. I called out in pain and surprise as I hopped on one foot desperately trying to slap out the fire down below. My girlfriend was useless to assist me as even if she had a solution to my predicament she was justifiably paralyzed with gales of uncontrollable laughter. The stale summer air hung thick with sex, fart and the putrid odor of burning human hair and singed flesh. I hopped down the hall to the bathroom, swatting my smoldering backside and ballsack the entire way where I backed myself into the toilet, lifted the lid and plunged my flaming ass all the way into the mercifully cool and flame quenching water below.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the true story of the last fart I ever lit, my first manscape, and the invention of the Burning Ass Hair Dance.
