Ten days and four minutes ago, at an unfamaliar stop on the chicago's underground train line, a fory three year old salesman from Minneapolis walked down the concrete steps and was confronted with a young man all dressed in black, with large nose rings and lip rings and ear rings and brow rings.
Slumped against the wall frowning, the young city denizen looks up at the shocked man and starts talking in a cool, punky sneer, "Yea, I'm a fartist. No, no... I didn't say artist, dude. Those fucking posers. No, I'm a fartist. I make real statements, man. Statements that need some vile smells to show these sheep how horrible the world is. No one knows but me, man... me, the only practicing Fartist. Here, let me riff on this thought, okay.... Uhh, (A SUSTAINED LOUD FART IS HEARD, THEN FOLLOWED BY TWO MORE SHORT BURSTS OF BUTT BREEZE). That man... it's about Rwanda. I can see by the tears in your eyes that you were with me on that one all the way to the genocide.
The life of a Fartist isn't all making sixth grade boys laugh . . . no, there are darker sides, stains that just kind of come with the business. But, who am I to complain? I was the first fartest to get one of these city licenses to perform on the subway tracks. See, right there, where it says Fartist? Yea, I did put the 'f' on there, but it's still official, okay?
My dad always dreamed of being a fartist. He was just, just such a frustrated fartist. Could not fart... he tried.... he would not quit. Of course it killed him. He was all whisky drunk that morning and straining away again, trying to fart and... his eyes popped out. Shot across the wall and splattered. He bled to death before the rest of could stop screaming. He passed that dream... that spark of the fartest, on to me, and... well, the rest history -- a history, I like to say, that is written on scorched nostril hairs, but actually, I have a blog.
I do a few songs, whatever it takes to make a few tips. Often, my performances are so intense that people just throw me some money and ask me to stop playing. I understand. Too much of this shit at once could blow their fucking minds, man. You can bet no one paid off Von Gogh to quit blowing their minds. Fart, no... I say 'fart no' instead of 'shit no'... kind of a trend that I started. Well, so what if you haven't heard any one else say 'fart no?' I fucking hear it all the time, down here in the subway, where are people are keeping it real. What? I don't know why they aren't stopping... no, this isn't a closed stop... where you going, I have some of my best stuff coming up... Fucking yuppie bastard!! Hey, wait, you got a cigarette, buddy? Oh, you fucking fart splatter. I'll bet you know what this means (A SERIES OF STACCATO, MACHINE GUN LIKE FARTS ARE HEARD). Told him... man, you know what? This place is closed... I wondered, it's been like three months since I got this license and there were like, eight people, all tourists... shit, if I was someplace where people could see me, I would proabably already have my own gallery somewhere, complete with plexiglass boxed farts for sale in the gift shop, which is where most of my bean money is going to probably come from. Until then, I'll just remain what I am... a starving fartist. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.