By Hillel Aron
By Joseph Tsidulko
By Patrick Range McDonald
By David Futch
By Hillel Aron
By Dennis Romero
By Jill Stewart
By Dennis Romero
“Suspension of disbelief,” Kyle nods in agreement. “Crucial. And I like how, in the apartment, there’s the little things that I keep my wigs on. The little mannequin heads.”
“Manic heads,” says Jack. “But my favorite is the Venice boardwalk drawing of you, and you’ve got the hair.”
“Yeah,” says Kyle. “I thought it would be funny if I had caricatures, like those beach caricatures, on my wall. So we had a guy do some. And when we were done filming, I was like, ‘I really want those.’ But it’s hard to get that shit after you’re done. New Line [POD’s studio] auctions it all off. So I got some copies made.”
“Dude,” says Jack. “They auction it all off?”
“I never hear about those auctions,” says Jack. “Do they wait until the movie comes out, wait until hopefully it’s popular, and then auction it off to the highest bidder? Is there some rich Monopoly dude who shows up and goes [snot-faced nasal-resonator twit voice], ‘500,000 for the Kage wig!’?”
“Yeah,” says Kyle. “The guy with the top hat.”
Jack gets up. Takes a few paces toward the door, to where the carpet turns to tile, turns to face us, drops his pants, squats and rips a squealing, bare-assed, flapping-wet fart.
“Oh, man!” Kyle cringes.
“Gawd!” I agree.
“Dude!” Kyle scolds.
“Whaddya mean?”says Jack, offended. “I took it over there!”
“Like it’s not gonna come back over here?”
“Hell no — backdraft! It’s a backdraft!”
“It sounded semiliquid,” I say.
“No liquids,” says Jack, double-checking. “It was a dry flap-flap.”
“It was a dry flap-flap-flap,” says Kyle.
Jack pulls up his pants and returns to the couch. “It’s not often that someone will pull down their pants for the fart,” he says. “I pull them down because I feel like then it’s not going through the filter of underpants and pants. I want to keep those pants clean. So if I can pull ’em down, wheeshhh! in the air, pull ’em up — clean undies.”
“I always stretch,” says Kyle. “Stretch my butt-cheeks.”
“I didn’t,” says Jack, “because I felt like there might be a turd comin’. There might be a turtle.”
“Turtle,” Kyle nods.
“Or worse,” Jack adds.
“I’m usually the one who does those kinds of things,” I admit. “It’s frustrating to be the reasonable one.”
“You have to be the journalist today,” says Kyle.
“On my college dorm floor,” I say, “I did win an impromptu farting contest.” Jack and Kyle seem interested, so I elaborate in details that I’ll forgo here, but for the necessary end: “A turd.”
“Oooh!” says Kyle.
“No!” says Jack. “An actual shit came out?”
“Yeah. I just laid a turd and walked away.”
“I don’t know if that counts as winning,” says Jack.
“Yes,” I say. “It does. A turd always wins a farting contest.”
“It actually disqualifies you, according to Monty Python,” says Jack. “There was a sketch they did on an album, and they said, ‘Oop! He felched!’ Wait . . . felched? Flonched? Plotched! It was something. I can’t remember what it was.”
“Not felched,” I say.
“Nooo!” says Kyle.
“Not felched,” says Jack. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. He plotched.”
“Well, shit,” I say. “Until you just said that, that was it. That was the highlight of my life.”
“I’m sorry, dude,” Jack consoles. “You know what? I think you probably did win. I think you probably did. Did you . . . leave it for someone else to scoop, or did you come back to retrieve your trophy?”
“I came back. I just had to finish the timing, walk down the hall until my competitors fully acknowledged my achievement. Then I went and snagged it. I wouldn’t have dropped it if I couldn’t tell ahead of time that it was going to be a clean, solid log.”
“So you knew that it wasn’t a bubblin’ wet crude?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t have done that.”
“What about the soft-swirl? That wouldn’t have gone?”
“That would’ve been effective, but I don’t think I would’ve had the balls.”