the yin and yang of my ass

With Metamucil comes regularity. Firmness. Grim satisfaction.

But if you're the least bit gassy when taking a Metamucil-powered dump, then woe unto you, for your ass turns into a wide-bore firearm, hissing a gunpowder warning before launching a 15-pound cannonball of shit straight down the toilet's throat.

I'm a gassy fellow, too, which is one reason why I don't launch taekwondo kicks during normal class hours: I'm worried I'll fart if I kick above waist level. If a fight were to break out in our building, I shudder to imagine what would happen in my pants if I rushed over to break the fight up. Maybe my underwear would suffer a few warm and angry gusts, and that would be it. But I suspect that things would actually be a lot worse: with my luck, I'd end up decorating my southern regions with corn, peanuts, and kimchi.

Fans of the Star Wars movies know that most doors in the Star Wars universe snap shut like guillotines, emitting a loud hydraulic hiss as they do so. Just the other day, one of my farts sounded exactly like those hydraulic doors. Luckily, nothing solid shot out, but I could feel a projectile approaching the exit like that huge, rolling boulder at the beginning of the first Indiana Jones movie. Not one to defy Mother Nature, I heeded the call and did my doodie.

Thank you, Metamucil. Thank you.


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