“I am Gunnery Sergeant Grackle, your Senior drill instructor!” Grackle roared as he marched past the new recruits. “You maggots have just begun eight weeks of hell in my boot camp!”
Grackle was interrupted by the sound of farting followed by giggling.
“Who did that?” Grackle screamed. “Who’s the slimy little sock sucker who just signed his own death warrant? And I WILL find out!”
Grackle began sniffing as he walked around the room. Then his face wrinkled in disgust. “HOO! It’s getting stronger! I must be getting close!”
Then he found himself in front of a tall, skinny recruit who was trying to stifle his laughter.
“What’s so funny, Private Tweezers?” Grackle bellowed.
“My friend here just farted,” Tweezers giggled.
“So farts are funny?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll fix that!” Grackle picked Tweezers up and squeezed him so hard that Tweezers let out one long loud fart before Grackle set him back down. Tweezers’ face now registered pain and discomfort.
“What’s the matter, Tweezers?” Grackle screamed. “I thought you said farts were funny!”
“They are.”
“Well, why aren’t you laughing?”
“That hurt,” Tweezers moaned.
“It’s SUPPOSED to hurt!” Grackle yelled. “Does that mean you’re not going to laugh at farts anymore?”
“Yes, sir.”
“GOOD!”
Grackle now turned to a short, fat recruit standing next to Tweezers.
“And you! Private Fartball! What’s the idea of farting around? Trying to make us laugh or something?”
“No sir,” Fartball stammered. “I only fart when I’m nervous.”
“DO I MAKE YOU NERVOUS?”
Fartball let out a short fart.
“WAS THAT A YES?”
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