FARTS UNKNOWN

I once had a time machine with a Brand New Cherry Flavor.

Through it, I was transported to Lyon for a lunch of pot-au-feu with Paul Bocuse because I farted too much in Paris, just like when I was yanked out off Tianjin to Shanghai to refresh my bowels with cumin crusted pork ribs.

Through it, I was smuggled from Cancun to Mexico City to break my fart on migas with some narcos, then later from Durban to Johannesburg where fire roasted sheep's head was served for the Indaba which kept me farting instead.

Pisco sour got me stuck in Lima because it went well with the octopus and flounder ceviche for a sweet fart, unlike the brined pork knuckle in Berlin, my refuge from Bonn, the small city/big town where I unloaded tons of funky farts in the intersessionals.  

Through it, I was fetched from Marrakech to Tangiers where Lisa Nova feasted on a tray of psychedelic majoun and was so stoned her pussy moved to her stomach to regurgitate Arab maqluba and Zanzibari pizza instead of kittens.

I once enrolled in a course on Sex Education at Moordale Secondary School.

Through the time machine, Otis Milburn brought me to Tokyo from Nagoya where he expounded on the basics of sexuality while dining on kusaya with a dominatrix couple

Through the time machine, Maeve Wiley swooped in Hyderabad to indoctrinate me in Punjab on the anatomy of the female sex organ using a local tandoori chicken as model. 

But it was the explosion of Mt. Agung that spewed freshly roasted babi guling from Bali to induce nights of gastronomic orgasm in Jakarta's Kemang enclave.   

By then, the time machine smelled of fart with complex layers of Kogi short rib taco from Los Angeles and Singaporean char kway teow, the pungent hints of Chiang Mai's grilled pork intestines betraying the sturdy influence of the mohinga from Yangon.

I was Anthony Bourdain's invisible Bodyguard.

That was until the horny and The Right Honorable Julia Montague exiled PS David Budd to Mapak-ol to join the remnants of D' HANKS and the Thursday Group of Bakal 2 in celebrating the reaping of the main cop with a loud fart and an offering of sinuglaw, adobong bibe and boiled peanuts to the rice goddess who on Wednesday and Thursday revealed herself to the Phantom Biker in white and orange colors.

Life is a bike trail, and the bike trail is my portal to a quick fix of Morcilla de Granada, a Napolitano margherita pizza, a Sicilian spaghetti al nero di seppia, a Roman prosciutto with artichoke heart, or a traditional fish and chips from Marco Pierre White in London.  

But the bike trail is also one big fart that may look as appetizing as the cuchifritos and chuletas fritas in New York City or Nashville's meat-and-three and the fancy sounding Choucroute garnie à l’Alsacienne of Quebec, or just a plain big red fish in Bahia and a weekend asado outside Asuncion, all of which produced a nasty flatulence, like Towie's death by Covid and Bulan's enlarged scrotum.