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©2006 website by Gone West


"Her Shit Does Stink"

by Robert Steven Rhine

©2006 -all shit reserved

I find comfort in the fact that supermodels take dumps. There is nothing more equalizing and reassuring in life than a gorgeous model bearing down and birthing an enormous nut covered fudgesicle out of her dilated sphincter. You may see this as sick and depraved but for all the pampered excess that society bestows on these blessed goddesses, showering them with fame and wealth at every turn, it is comforting to know that somewhere, right now, Tyra Banks is gritting down, contracting her 'personal trainer' stomach muscles, sweat beads popping out her botoxed forehead as she extrudes a three foot mud rope to the tepid holy water of her porcelain throne. Or, Martha Stewart burning a mule while seated on her stenciled toilet seat, thumbing through Martha Stewart Lying, and serving up a steaming sea cucumber in a foie gras and black truffle sauce from her pursed rectum. Or, Julia Roberts, in her royal 'reading room' perusing an interview about her precious uber twins in Interview Magazine, while dangling an engorged intestine slug out of her perky billion dollar dimpled cheeks, the bungee butt burrito testing the water before dropping "anchors-away" with a mighty 'ker-plunk!" Or, one of the dozens of supermodels named Kylie or Natalia or Milla or Paris or Bridget or Svinkta, who take their lunch break from the rigors of a Bora Bora photo shoot to nosh on a macrobiotic smorgasbord of kiwi fruit and chocolate sorbet, then excuse themselves to enter their air conditioned, forty-eight foot luxury motor home to motivate an angry anaconda out their slop-shoot while making another two grand before flushing the gold-plated handle.

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I often wonder as I lay sleepless at night, do supermodels 'look' before they 'flush? Do they, as billions of others, admire their artistry after crapping out a tribute to Mt. Rushmore? Or, do they avert their delicate eyes from the horrors of bodily function?

On a related note, I recently discovered a website called Turd Twisters which sells "extruder rings" (imagine your grandmother's Christmas pastry bag tips) that you actually jam up your anus and, upon bodily elimination, create wonderful animal shapes and silly piles of stinky fun. Or, as stated on their website (Turd Twister.com) "A complete kit for shaping your turd into amazing designs." Fun for the whole family! Trade with your friends and collect them all: The Churro Turd, Twirler Turd, Spaghetti Turd, Pyramid Turd, the Weiner Turd, Gingerbread Turd and, my personal favorite, the Love Turd. I ain't making this shit up.

Is this what our future holds? For our country - our planet? Will there someday be art shows for turds? The Turd Olympics? Miss Turd America? Will Steve Wynn open up the Turdland Casino in Las Vegas where you wait in line, after an all-you-can-eat Turdland buffet, to oggle Wynn's priceless collection of priceless scat? Will Cristies someday auction Michaelangelo's "Last Shat."

Actually, I heard that Elvis had his scat pilfered from his colon after his death. Huh? Where is it now? And when will it resurface? Will Cameron Diaz's Tootsie Rolls someday be auctioned on Ebay? Martha Stewart's rabbitt pellets on the Home Shopping Club? You scoff. But, at a Four Seasons somewhere, a maid is scooping up soggy stars turds in Baggies and labeling them for her Ebay store.

What comforts me most, besides a supermodel delivering a odoriferous, bubbling, bastard asspring -- is the melodious sound of a beautiful lady ripping an enormous "Shock and Awe" fanny flapper. Ode de fart. Music to my ears. With one mighty wind they shove aside all civility, betraying their beautiful supermodel sect, and let 'er rip.


Yes, supermodels fart. Some of the worst imaginable. Some have maimed.

Now, as we all know, farts have two acts (actually three - but we'll get to that later).

Act I: The Sound - an audible release of intestinal gas, "flatulence" also called "breaking or passing wind," amazing in its endless variety of tone and pitch. From the high-squeaker-pinched-balloon-helium-fart to the Barry-White-butt-thunder-cheek-rumbler-tuba-fart.


Frequent farters, like frequent flyers, can even now profit from their wayward wind and have burgeoning careers. Witness the Howard Stern Show where he occasionally welcomes an amiable chap who can touch his toes and toot Bach out his poop pipe or Ja ohn Tesh melodies out his audibly enhanced anus. His rendition of "Flight of the Bumble Bee" is truly impressive.

Act II: The Smell. Perhaps the most egregious part of the whole farting affair is the nostril curling, eye-watering, stomach churning, bird killing, fetid canal dredging, fish gutting, trash putrefying, hippo blasting, ninety-year-old toothless Bavarian prostitute with halitosis exhaling, stinkola fest - which could fumigate Osama Bin Laden out of hiding.

There are more varying smells from flatulance than the Iron Chefs can cook in a lifetime of farts. A few award winners: The 'hard boiled egg and beer' fart; the 'past its expiration date gelfite fish' fart; The 'broccoli and Brussels sprout ratatouille' fart; the 'French aged cheese and foie gras' fart; the 'vegan food supplement' fart; the 'carnitas and bean burrito with XXX hot sauce' fart; the 'blue plate special meatloaf' fart; the 'Jeffrey Dahmer' fart; the 'I'm not feeling so good stand back' fart; (which is a close relative of) 'the hospital' fart; The 'strained turnips baby food' fart; the 'old man sitting in his car with the windows up' fart; the 'just died on the autopsy table final' fart; the 'Fear Factor food' fart; the 'just had sex - doesn't that smell familiar?' fart; the 'I just smelled someone else's fart and then I farted' fart; the 'that was my dog who farted' fart; the 'restrained - should have farted hours ago' fart.

Yes, it's truly infinite.

This brings up the third and final act of farting:

ACT III: Denial and diversion. Like a magician or ventriloquist - we like to throw our farts and make them disappear - using misdirection - towards anyone but thyself. You know the story, "he who smelt it..." But why can't we just accept our farts? We accept deformity, disease, obnoxiousness, tardiness, rudeness, meanness, obesity, fashion faux pas and odd limps... why not farts?

It's widely reported that women deny their farts more than men. It's true. Ever watch a sporting event with a group of beer guzzling good-ole-boys? Or, spent the night in a tent with a bunch of male hikers? I have. One spark and we would have had the Hindenberg. "Oh the humanity."

I wonder... do animals fart? Do snails? What does a a snail fart smell like? Could this be a Nova special?

Why can't we be proud of our farts? Like a basketball players raising their hands when they commit a foul. Only, in this case, it's a foul odor. Six farts and you're out. Wouldn't you just love to see someone rip a reveille out their rear, raise their hand and exclaim, "darn it, that felt liberating! - I hope you don't mind but I had bratwurst for lunch!" Or, someone peels off a tush tornado and someone else lays claim to it saying "My bad!" But what if two lay claim to the same cheezer? Each trying to take credit? Who would settle these disputes? Will there be Fart Court someday - where a judge and jury determine ownership of one's personal gas? Maybe the farts would get a copyright number? FRT5789432. If anyone farted the same way as you - then you could sue them. After all, farts are forms of expression just like art or writing or music or spoken word poetry (see Def Butt Jam). If other artists can have a union, why can't Farters of America unite?

Which all brings me back to my original thesis - beautiful women... and their poo.

The following is a true story. For several years I was a unit publicist working on big buget studio pictures. Well, one particular film, a real stinker as it turned out, starred two female, Academy Award winners. One day, while strolling past their luxurious star trailers, an eyelash curling, stomach churning stench halted me dead in my tracks. Literally. I couldn't move, embalmed by an invisible, deadly, intestinal, swamp-gas, which entombed me in a purple cloud of ill will that could drop a thousand crack Marines to their knees, clutching their throats, and clawing their eyes out, retching from the mysterious poison gas. The smell could be best described as: a reeking high-tide sewage backup from old Calcutta mixed with the corpulent carcasses of beheaded drug runners, their maggoty bodies sweltering in an offal filled cesspool Jacuzzi for a week then floating down a slag canal of bloated mad cows, their festering remains picked clean by vultures who vomit, die and rot in a nightmare Disney version of the 'circle of life.'

"Hmm," I wondered, "where is that charming bouquet emanating from?"

I incidentally said this aloud -- which was overhead by several beer bellied teamsters - with beards and cowboy hats, holding empty Coors cans - who simultaneously nodded towards a seventy foot, air conditioned, plush carpeted star trailer.

I followed their weepy glaze toward a hapless honey wagon driver pumping out the contents of the offending trailer.

Now, for those of you 'not in the know', a honey wagon driver has the unenviable job of cleaning out the human waste tanks of stars' movie trailers. (And you think your job stinks?) Anyhow, they hook up a hose and pump the undesirable contents into a tanker truck (the 'shit mobile') which they then drive to some toxic crap heap and spray down a carpet of the nastiest filth imaginable - which society doesn't want to know or think about past a flush. I've heard the honey drivers joyfully refer to the stench as "perfume."

Anyhow, if someone is actually seated on the crapper as the honey wagon driver is pumping out the contents of their trailer's waste tank, and hey flush at the exact moment he's trying to seal the 'honey hose,' the hermetic seal is broken and ghastly, indescribable odors and lethal methane escape from the trailer - like evil spirits.

Or, so I forthwith discovered.

I bravely took a step forward into the force field of offensive effluvium, my eyelids searing back in their sockets like "Clockwork Orange." But I just had to see from which trailer this 'death cloud' was wafting. Could it be screen legend Jessica Tang? I suddenly recalled star Tang's riveting performance in "King Bong" and imagined a gigantic six hundred pound, stoned, gorilla pooping onto her trailer. At least this would explain what I was presently inhaling. But just as I was about to point an accusing bony finger at screen legend Tang, the trailer door swung open and lithely stepping out, in a lemon fresh chiffon dress, light on her feet, was none other than... Penelope Galtrow! Academy Award winner -- bon vivant -- heir apparent to Grace Kelly... THAT Penelope Galtrow! She smiled sweetly at me as if we had shared a special secret. We had. The secret recipe of her intestines. How many men or women had actually been as privileged as I, and the beer-gutted teamsters, to sniff such royal air?

At that time, Galtrow was dating Tadd Pitts - so I suppose he had been so privileged to catch a whiff, light a match, open a Renuzit and crack a window. But a mere 'below the line' commoner such as myself, smelling the aroma of the Gods? It was more than I could handle. I was finally on the inside - of Galtrow's gut. Her smell molecules intertwined with mine in a ripe tango of senses as if we had just made love. Well, not exactly love. But it was, nevertheless, a magical moment. And, as Penelope sashayed to the set for her closeup, all eyes upon her - everyone knew who was the 'honey' behind her wagon's fondue.

Penelope, if you're reading this story in Premiere magazine, (the one with you on the cover), while sitting on your heated toilet seat in your air purified trailer in Tibet filming the sequel to "Shakespeare in Lust," please, please forgive me. We all have bodily functions so I don't mean to single you out for smell-o-vision. I hope you won't want to sue me - though I must admit it would be amusing in the trades to read the headline in Variety: Penelope Sues For Poo. Besides, it's 100% percent true. At least, that's the poop.

So, don't despair beautiful gals. Just let 'em rip. Fart with freedom. Shat securely knowing that your secret will always be private (unless you flush when the honey wagon driver is still sealing the suction hose on the set of a major Hollywood movie) and know that the largest, smelliest teamster, who just won a rat eating competition, has got nothing on the freshly roasted totem pole Penelope Galtrow left dying in her latrine - on that fartful afternoon in July.

Which all goes to prove, when it comes to beautiful models...

Their shit does stink.