Finding Floofy

Author: Donald Rump
Pages: 17
Language: English
Publication date: 16/02/2016
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A man falls in love with a murderous fart, who mysteriously disappears.
When a man falls head over heels for a murderous fart, he has difficulty coping with her mysterious departure. Was it something he said? Something he did? Is his penis too small? None of it makes any sense. 'I will find you, my darling Floofy. Even if it's the last thing I do!'

For mature (and not so mature) audiences. Approximately 4,250 words in all.


I still remember the first time I met you. I’d fallen from grace, much like I have now. In my pit of despair, you raised me up. Made me laugh, cry. That warm bottle of Killian’s Red smashed over my head never tasted better. Oh sweet, sweet memories, take me back to the song of yesterday…

My life had been empty till you came along. I was drinking my way towards a slow, painful death, my Catholic upbringing preventing me from ending it any sooner. The breakup with my fiancé of twelve years shattered me, and felt like a divorce and a funeral all rolled into one. For the first time in a long while, I felt vulnerable and alone. How could I ever trust another soul again?

Ten long, miserable years I’d spent earning a doctorate degree. “It will make you proud, and give you a new sense of purpose and self-worth,” my mother told me. While it helped me secure a higher paying job than my peers, it also brought with it a mountain of debt. “One day you’ll look back on this and thank me for pushing you so hard,” my mother rambled on. “A good education completes you on the highest and most honorable of levels.”

Who was I to argue? She was my mom after all, and wanted the best things for me in life. But the only thing it completed was her lofty expectations of me. Inside, I was very much the same lonely, confused child that I’d always been, and didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life yet.

“My son’s a doctor!” my parents shouted in every ear that would listen. But in reality, I was merely an expert in Turfgrass Management, and it did little to fill me.

“Turfgrass, what’s that?” said a drunken fool with a red face, bad haircut and a golden nametag that read ‘Squiggy.’ He set down his bottle and grinned. “By chance are you referring to something of the female persuasion?”
El vendedor asume toda la responsabilidad de esta entrada.
When he's not writing about old, crusty farts, Donald Rump writes about actual farts--the stinkier the better. He is also an advocate of the No Fart Left Behind program and marriage equality for all gaseous entities great and small.

Mr. Rump lives in Southern Maryland with his pet fart Floofy.

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