clintard
Well-Known Member
I got this off another website i frequent and about lost it, hope you guys enjoy it as much as i do. I have a twisted sense of humor
When I was in my late teens, I worked for Montgomery Ward as a liaison between electronics and the in store service center called "Doctronics." It was the sort of place where Packard Bell computers and Malaysian made rear projection TVs went to die. Nothing ever really got fixed unless it was a fairly simple or obvious problem that could be dealt with by ordering a "J-27b parts schematic" from corporate. The whole process of troubleshooting and part ordering simply served as an elaborate rouge to further delay the eventual call saying "it would be cost prohibitive to repair" or the ever popular "we can't fix it."
The service department normally had some pretty level headed guys, a mix of folks who used to run their own shops and couldn't hack it and electronics tinkerers with various chemical dependencies. These were your average, Southern Illinois, "salt-of-the-earth" type people. Just think about the folks you see loading into their F150s to beat the "churchies" to Sizzler on Sundays before all the Mostacholi on the buffet is gone, and you're 90% of the way there.
As with any office, everyone has their own little stories and personality quirks, but today I want to focus on a guy named Rick. Rick joined "the team" a week or two before I started at Wards but was already pretty famous for his strange behavior and work place shenanigans. We had personality conflicts at first, but I quickly realized that he was very competent at his job and was actually a pretty nice guy (albeit a "nice guy" who once got so drunk that he managed to get kicked out of a Jeff Foxworthy "concert" - which I didn't even know was possible.)
As time went on, Rick's legend grew from the player of simple pranks to some of shit that would get you fired if you worked anywhere else. One time he drop kicked a customers VCR in front them when the tape that was stuck inside (reported to be an overdue rental movie) turned out to be homemade Down's Syndrome porn. But not even that meltdown elevated him to the superstar status that he was eventually destined for. The thing the made Rick truly famous, and worthy of having his story told on a website dedicated to dick jokes and punishing furies, was a little game he played with us his fellow employees. A game that while disturbing, truly opened my heart to him, and his seemingly backward country ways.
That game? Floor farting.
For the uninitiated, floor farting consists of lowering your pants to your ankles and squatting with your ass as close to a hard surface, like a concrete floor, as possible. You then slowly, but loudly as possible, release any pent up gas you may have. The real trick seems to be trying to maintain the pressure as long as possible to prolong the loud reverberating sound bouncing back up from the floor to the ears of your coworkers as they try and go about their normal business.
This practice of floor farting isn't just something you break out any old time, it is best reserved for when someone (obviously out of visual range, yet within earshot) is doing something that requires concentration or be serious and keep a straight face. It's always embarrassing for the person who loses it in front of a customer and chuckles or starts laughing, and Rick loved every awkward flatulent moment of it.
At lunch one day, I final decided asked Rick when he first came up with the idea.
"Well my Dad used to do it to entertain us as kids and I guess I sort of just picked it up from there."
I was a bit puzzled by his answer.. I mean, I remember going fishing with my Dad or camping - but never has my Dad dropping his pants and blasting one out on the kitchen floor purely for my amusement.
"Your Dad used to drop his pants and fart to entertain you as a child?"
"Well sure?" Then the qualifier: "...we were poor." I chalked it up to different strokes and moved on.
Over time, everyone fell to Rick's brand of home-spun "entertainment."
Talking with a customer?
Soldering a new part onto a circuit board in a 1970's turn table?
Taking an important phone call from a regional manager bitching about why your numbers are lower than Chicago area stores even though there are less people in this town than in the average Chicago cab?
You get the picture.
These were Rick's salad days. And everything was great until the day he got reported by one of the thinner and shakier staff members (a drinker to be sure) for causing him to "throw up in his mouth" after Rick came back from a weekend bender and a trip to Taco Johns. Lucky for Rick, nothing ever became of it because the fact that he was crouched half naked when the fart occurred was not mentioned in the complaint so the whole thing was brushed aside as a waste of HR's time.
Like most people in the department, I took the farting in stride and found it funny that I mattered enough in this man's mind to deserve his rapt farting attention. He didn't try and get me all the time, which is what made the times he did all the more disruptive and somehow honorific in nature. Unfortunately. not everyone shared my same view.
I later learned that shortly after the "mouth vomiting" situation, a plan was hatched to get even with Rick and end his reign of hilarious terror once and for all. Quiet murmurs replaced the normal chuckle while Rick worked his mojo as someone talked to an angry customer or ordered out for Chinese. The signs were all around that things were about to go seriously awry for Rick, yet both Rich and I were too oblivious to sense the changing wind.
It was a normal Tuesday afternoon, but something just wasn't right. The normal idle chatter that normally ran from 8 to 5 was replaced with silence for the first time since I had been there. Customers filed in as they always did with their broken Sanyo boom boxes and decrepit, roach filled, Super Nintendos demanding nothing less than miracles at prices that would make a Chinese factory worker seriously consider starting a union. Up front, a clerk was explaining to a customer why he should pay a $65 diagnostic fee for a $50 Admiral brand CD player when I heard Rick fumbling with his belt bucket in preparation for his special brand of magic.
"Well sir, you knew that we had a minimum fee when you brought in."
Rick started his wind up...
Not a second later, the most blood-curdling noise I have ever heard escaped the other end of Rick's digestive track.
YEEEAAAAAAAACHHH!
Unfortunately for Rick, today was the day that the plan to "get even" came to fruition. It seems that someone had the bright idea to sneak up behind Rick and liberally coat his balls with the contents of an upturned can of compressed air as he squatted mid-fart above the bare concrete floor. I can only imagine what went through his brain while the propellant quickly turned his bean bag into a frosty white raisin. I bet it was like in Fight Club when Edward Norton's imaginary friend dumped lye on his hand, only the word on Jack's mind in this instance would be "COLD" - ball numbing, penguin shitting, getting a rim job from the Snow Miser, cold.
While I had been the recipient of many a floor fart since I joined the department, I had thankfully never actually seen the act being performed. This came to an abrupt end the second chemical propellant met testicle. Rick ran-waddled out of the back service area as fast as you can with pants around your ankles directly into the employee bathroom which was located conveniently by the register where the previously mentioned clerk and customer were duking it out. In front of customers and employees alike, Rick stood with the door wide open and immediately started splashing great handfuls water onto his junk, howling like a wild dog the entire time.
"Mouth vomit" finally got his revenge, and the days of Rick's floor farting had ended.
It was not long after this that Rick moved on to bigger and brighter things. He told me that he was leaving to open a TV repair shop with his brother in law and they intended to run the operation out of his brother in law's garage. He also made sure to tell me that he was going to be making three times and amount he was making at Wards. I never made an effort to contact him after he left, but I can only assume he kept up his floor farting ways in his new job. I hope that for his own sake that he more closely monitored anyone that might be lurking behind him with a can of compressed air. I'm sure he marked every square inch of that garages concrete pad with his own brand of Southern Illinois entertainment, proud that he's touched so many lives with stale beer farts.
When I was in my late teens, I worked for Montgomery Ward as a liaison between electronics and the in store service center called "Doctronics." It was the sort of place where Packard Bell computers and Malaysian made rear projection TVs went to die. Nothing ever really got fixed unless it was a fairly simple or obvious problem that could be dealt with by ordering a "J-27b parts schematic" from corporate. The whole process of troubleshooting and part ordering simply served as an elaborate rouge to further delay the eventual call saying "it would be cost prohibitive to repair" or the ever popular "we can't fix it."
The service department normally had some pretty level headed guys, a mix of folks who used to run their own shops and couldn't hack it and electronics tinkerers with various chemical dependencies. These were your average, Southern Illinois, "salt-of-the-earth" type people. Just think about the folks you see loading into their F150s to beat the "churchies" to Sizzler on Sundays before all the Mostacholi on the buffet is gone, and you're 90% of the way there.
As with any office, everyone has their own little stories and personality quirks, but today I want to focus on a guy named Rick. Rick joined "the team" a week or two before I started at Wards but was already pretty famous for his strange behavior and work place shenanigans. We had personality conflicts at first, but I quickly realized that he was very competent at his job and was actually a pretty nice guy (albeit a "nice guy" who once got so drunk that he managed to get kicked out of a Jeff Foxworthy "concert" - which I didn't even know was possible.)
As time went on, Rick's legend grew from the player of simple pranks to some of shit that would get you fired if you worked anywhere else. One time he drop kicked a customers VCR in front them when the tape that was stuck inside (reported to be an overdue rental movie) turned out to be homemade Down's Syndrome porn. But not even that meltdown elevated him to the superstar status that he was eventually destined for. The thing the made Rick truly famous, and worthy of having his story told on a website dedicated to dick jokes and punishing furies, was a little game he played with us his fellow employees. A game that while disturbing, truly opened my heart to him, and his seemingly backward country ways.
That game? Floor farting.
For the uninitiated, floor farting consists of lowering your pants to your ankles and squatting with your ass as close to a hard surface, like a concrete floor, as possible. You then slowly, but loudly as possible, release any pent up gas you may have. The real trick seems to be trying to maintain the pressure as long as possible to prolong the loud reverberating sound bouncing back up from the floor to the ears of your coworkers as they try and go about their normal business.
This practice of floor farting isn't just something you break out any old time, it is best reserved for when someone (obviously out of visual range, yet within earshot) is doing something that requires concentration or be serious and keep a straight face. It's always embarrassing for the person who loses it in front of a customer and chuckles or starts laughing, and Rick loved every awkward flatulent moment of it.
At lunch one day, I final decided asked Rick when he first came up with the idea.
"Well my Dad used to do it to entertain us as kids and I guess I sort of just picked it up from there."
I was a bit puzzled by his answer.. I mean, I remember going fishing with my Dad or camping - but never has my Dad dropping his pants and blasting one out on the kitchen floor purely for my amusement.
"Your Dad used to drop his pants and fart to entertain you as a child?"
"Well sure?" Then the qualifier: "...we were poor." I chalked it up to different strokes and moved on.
Over time, everyone fell to Rick's brand of home-spun "entertainment."
Talking with a customer?
Soldering a new part onto a circuit board in a 1970's turn table?
Taking an important phone call from a regional manager bitching about why your numbers are lower than Chicago area stores even though there are less people in this town than in the average Chicago cab?
You get the picture.
These were Rick's salad days. And everything was great until the day he got reported by one of the thinner and shakier staff members (a drinker to be sure) for causing him to "throw up in his mouth" after Rick came back from a weekend bender and a trip to Taco Johns. Lucky for Rick, nothing ever became of it because the fact that he was crouched half naked when the fart occurred was not mentioned in the complaint so the whole thing was brushed aside as a waste of HR's time.
Like most people in the department, I took the farting in stride and found it funny that I mattered enough in this man's mind to deserve his rapt farting attention. He didn't try and get me all the time, which is what made the times he did all the more disruptive and somehow honorific in nature. Unfortunately. not everyone shared my same view.
I later learned that shortly after the "mouth vomiting" situation, a plan was hatched to get even with Rick and end his reign of hilarious terror once and for all. Quiet murmurs replaced the normal chuckle while Rick worked his mojo as someone talked to an angry customer or ordered out for Chinese. The signs were all around that things were about to go seriously awry for Rick, yet both Rich and I were too oblivious to sense the changing wind.
It was a normal Tuesday afternoon, but something just wasn't right. The normal idle chatter that normally ran from 8 to 5 was replaced with silence for the first time since I had been there. Customers filed in as they always did with their broken Sanyo boom boxes and decrepit, roach filled, Super Nintendos demanding nothing less than miracles at prices that would make a Chinese factory worker seriously consider starting a union. Up front, a clerk was explaining to a customer why he should pay a $65 diagnostic fee for a $50 Admiral brand CD player when I heard Rick fumbling with his belt bucket in preparation for his special brand of magic.
"Well sir, you knew that we had a minimum fee when you brought in."
Rick started his wind up...
Not a second later, the most blood-curdling noise I have ever heard escaped the other end of Rick's digestive track.
YEEEAAAAAAAACHHH!
Unfortunately for Rick, today was the day that the plan to "get even" came to fruition. It seems that someone had the bright idea to sneak up behind Rick and liberally coat his balls with the contents of an upturned can of compressed air as he squatted mid-fart above the bare concrete floor. I can only imagine what went through his brain while the propellant quickly turned his bean bag into a frosty white raisin. I bet it was like in Fight Club when Edward Norton's imaginary friend dumped lye on his hand, only the word on Jack's mind in this instance would be "COLD" - ball numbing, penguin shitting, getting a rim job from the Snow Miser, cold.
While I had been the recipient of many a floor fart since I joined the department, I had thankfully never actually seen the act being performed. This came to an abrupt end the second chemical propellant met testicle. Rick ran-waddled out of the back service area as fast as you can with pants around your ankles directly into the employee bathroom which was located conveniently by the register where the previously mentioned clerk and customer were duking it out. In front of customers and employees alike, Rick stood with the door wide open and immediately started splashing great handfuls water onto his junk, howling like a wild dog the entire time.
"Mouth vomit" finally got his revenge, and the days of Rick's floor farting had ended.
It was not long after this that Rick moved on to bigger and brighter things. He told me that he was leaving to open a TV repair shop with his brother in law and they intended to run the operation out of his brother in law's garage. He also made sure to tell me that he was going to be making three times and amount he was making at Wards. I never made an effort to contact him after he left, but I can only assume he kept up his floor farting ways in his new job. I hope that for his own sake that he more closely monitored anyone that might be lurking behind him with a can of compressed air. I'm sure he marked every square inch of that garages concrete pad with his own brand of Southern Illinois entertainment, proud that he's touched so many lives with stale beer farts.
