Here's a recent story that seems to fascinate people. In a moment of random necessity, we purchased a tent to put in the living room of our apartment. You see, we used to have a pretty cool foosball table, and despite the fact that we rarely used it, it looked pretty damn cool.

Unfortunately, the table moved on to greener pastures and we were left with a giant vacant spot behind our couch. It was quite the eyesore. Ideas ran through our head as to what could take its place: Sacrificial altar? Yoga mat? Trash pile? God?

Lightning struck. The Wal Mart Library just so happened to have a deluxe children's tent for a grand total of fifteen dollars. The investment was made, and if we were not satisfied with our purchase, it was our American right to return it and get our money back. You know, checking it out from the library.

At first, the possibilities were endless while the eventual purpose was a great mystery. What role would the tent play? Would it be a quiet place to read? Would we do illicit drugs in it? Would it ironically become that sacrificial altar... or God himself?

Well, the end result isn't quite that exciting. This has become, after all, the "fart tent." And here's how.

Soon after the tent was erected, a few buddies made the trip to Gainesville for a weekend of regrettable activities. The noteworthy are the usual suspects: Troy, Fraser, John, and, of course, the good old, Dr. Jarae Sacman.

"I call the tent," Sacman said a good week in advance of his arrival, much to the dismay of everyone else when they arrived in town. As soon as the others showed up, the bitching began.

"Wait," Fray said, "he's not even here in town yet, yet he's called the tent? This is bullshit. Where is he? Probably screwing some ugly girl."

Our valedictorian, it turns out, was not far from the truth. But that's neither here nor there.

Sacman eventually did show up and a night of fun was had before he passed out in his rightfully claimed tent. The next day, he was all too happy to gloat about the great sleeping accommodations within the tent.

"I love it," he said of the housing. "Seriously. I fucking love it."

Now I cannot personally vouch that the following events took place verbatim, since I was not present for them, but I will recall what I suspect happened while I lay in slumber that fateful Saturday morning.

It seemed that Sacman had made previous plans to play a tennis match Saturday afternoon against a friend after an obligatory trip to Grandy's. This left Troy, John and Fray to sit on the couch and allow the food of Grandy's to declare jihad on their aching bodies as their intestinal system tried to fight off the grease.

As they sat and watched Tivo'd episodes of "Cheap Seats," the bitching, of course, commenced. As did the farting.

"Fuck Sacman," Fray said. "He loves that fucking tent so much, he called it before he got here. What a prick. I'm gonna make that tent smell like shit."

And so a precisely constructed assembly line began on that fateful afternoon. The door to the tent was carefully sealed and Fray left enough open to get his ass cheeks in.

That's bare ass cheeks, just so you know.

And after letting it rip, Fraser quickly sealed up the tent to hold in the "freshness," so to speak.

And so this process continued for a great deal of time. And here's where I come in to find, to my amazement, what these future leaders of America, the supposed best and brightest we have to offer, have managed to conjure up on a Saturday afternoon. I awake around my usual time of 3 p.m. and venture downstairs. It's a sight to behold, so I've done my best to attempt to horribly photoshop the event that lay before my eyes.



And oh yeah, there's Fray, with his God damn pants around his ankles, tearing farts out with all his might. They sound like they're literally ripping his flesh as the hot air shoots out of his deepest depths. Red-faced, squeezing and grunting like he's giving birth, bent over and standing up. Right into my brand new tent.

And there goes John. And Troy. They take turns, farting into this tent for hours.

I can't help but wonder of all of this... how does Fray know he's not shitting himself while spreading his bare ass cheeks, squeezing the life out of himself just to get that last bit of methane into Sacman's sleeping quarters?

I imagine the wet speckles of shit spraying all over inside my brand new tent.

I picture the unexpected loss of bowel control as a fresh-squeezed turd drops onto Sacman's pillow.

Luckily for everyone involved, Fray's bare ass managed to hold in all the shit it contained. There would be no violent Grandy's dookie in my living room on this day.

That night, just like the night before, Sacman retired to his tent for an evening of peaceful slumber. It was, unbeknownst to him, already dubbed the "fart tent."

The next day, it's a big joke with everyone. "How'd that tent treat ya last night? Pretty good?"

"Oh yeah," he said with a giant grin across his face. "I love it. I fucking love it."