A Shart Heard Round The World

OTHER FEATURED ARTICLES: Clint Eastwood: Frontrunner for Stool of the Year? ALSO Bunny Tightwater recaps celebrity stool shenanigans from this year’s Oscars

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The Following article was featured in the March 2010 Issue of Stool Monthly

A Shart Heard Round the World: The Story of John Frederick Parker

Shart To fart and follow through. Uses also include sharting or sharted.

Example: “Oops, I almost sharted.”

(defintion courtesy of unwords.com)

Sharts, those elusive rectal terrorists that have, time and time again, changed the course of human history.

Many poor souls, wishing merely to squeeze out a quick bleet on their bottom trumpets, instead unleash a devastating Shart.

The first recorded shart comes to us courtesy of The Bible.

Thaddeus, arguably the least important of Jesus’ twelve disciples, wrote his own book for the new testament that was rejected by papal powers for being:

“Racy, crude, and featuring  a strange and predominant fixation for human excrement and the color orange.”

With the help of the “Stool Monthly” research team and our agent in the Vatican, the honorable Cardinal Jonas Bigsby of Cyprus, who asked to remain anonymous, we uncovered an ancient copy of The Book of Thaddeus.

The following is the excerpt from The Book of Thaddeus that describes the first Shart. This except was translated by our resident expert  in Latin, DJ Bugsy Two-lips.

NAW, SON. Peeps be thinkin’ we be callin’ our boy Andrew “The Bringer” cause he brought his brotha Peter to Jesus, and found that lil’ fool with the fish and loaves that one day homeboy Jesus fed all those cats.

Real story is: one day we was on-site with Jesus in Leprosy territory, south-side Jerusalem, bringin’ the miracles to the streets ya know? Andrew walkin’ beside me, talkin’ about fishin’ and shit, ya know how dem fishermen roll, and he gets this look on his face. I mean, this LOOK like he’s just seen the Devil roll up in a Monte Carlo or some shit. I ask him why he’s buggin’, he won’t tell me shit, just starts grabbing at the back of his robe. Well, Son-of-God hears the ruckus behind him and pretty soon the whole crew’s lookin’ at Andrew. Andrew says something bout “needing to return some videotapes” and runs off in the other direction.

I kid you not, the brown patch on that cat’s robes stretched to the ground, it was the fuckin’ rainy season in his drawers. So homeboy Jesus gets that look in his eyes, that look he gets when he’s gonna say something real, and he says, “Sharts… I hate those.”

We called Andrew “The Bringer” after that, cause we never knew when he might “bring” his ark filled with chocolate animals to dock in his underclothes, ya know?

While the disciple Andrew’s Shart was the first, it ‘twould not be the last.

FAST FORWARD to April of 1865.

President Abraham Lincoln was gearing up to see a performance of “Our American Cousin” at the Ford’s Theatre.

It was Good Friday

(another biblical link to Sharting! further down the rabbit hole we go folks)

A Shart was about to take place. A Shart heard round the world.

John Wilkes Booth, Edwin Booth, and Junius Booth, Jr appearing in a production of “Julius Caeser,” which proved ironic considering that John Wilkes Booth never looked good in a toga.

John Wilkes Booth had visited the Ford’s Theatre earlier that day to pick up his mail.

Booth came from a long and illustrious line of actors, and was himself highly regarded in the performing arts.

He overheard a conversation at the Theatre about how President Lincoln and General Grant would be attending the performance of “Our American Cousin” that night.

Booth was very interested to hear this considering he had been plotting to kill Lincoln for some time.

While the true villain in this tale is a thunderous Shart, almost as much blame can be set at the feet of Theatre gossip.

Sadly, both Sharts and Theatre gossip continue to this day.

General Grant would not attend “Our American Cousin” that night because, coincidentally, Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Lincoln hated the fuck out of each other.

Instead, Major Henry Rathbone and his fiancee Clara Harris would join the Lincoln’s for a night of theatre.

Mrs. Lincoln and Miss Harris did not hate the fuck out of each other.

With the Civil War drawing to a close, White House security thought it best to choose the most obscure, inept, and hopeless Presidental Bodyguard they could find.

That man was John Frederick Parker.

“www.mrlincolnswhitehouse.com” has this to say about Mr. Parker:

As a Washington policeman, he had compiled a record of misconduct and 14 disciplinary infractions that made him a curious choice for the White House detail. He once explained a week he spent in a house of prostitution by saying he had been protecting the establishment.

John arrived late to work on April 14th, 1865. He was about to have a very very bad day.

REWIND to April 13th, 1865

John had stayed up late “protecting a house of prostitution,” during which time he consumed an entire fifth of Jameson. He would later tell his Sergent, when recounting the night of April 13th.

“I found the bottle in an alleyway. I found Syphilis there too.”

The Sergent, not being a man of medicine, often searched alleyways later in life hoping to find a bottle of Jameson but remained always vigilant because, at any moment, he might be jumped by Syphilis.

John, whose Syphilis dated back much farther than April 13th, had a terrible headache come April 14th and discovered that he was now missing his back, left molar.

John finally arrived at Ford’s Theatre after President Lincoln had already been seated, stumbling towards the passageway outside of the Theatre’s Presidential box where he was supposed to be stationed.

Protecting the president, as John quickly discovered, turned out to be boring as hell. He expected to have faced at least 3 potential assassins by now, and had been stroking his Colt Revolver, nicknamed “Betsy Kill-em-time,” on the carriage ride over working through exactly what he would tell President Lincoln after he’d thwarted a seemingly endless flood of assassins.

A combination of Jameson, and Syphilis, meanwhile, were conceiving a twisted love-child in John’s bowels.

After fifteen minutes without an assassination attempt, John decided his time would be much better spent watching “Our American Cousin” from the audience, rather then only catching muffled bits of audience laughter from his current post.

He would spot any potential assassin from the Theatre’s house and, fancying himself a crack-shot, would be able to pick them off before they delivered a deadly metal payload to the President’s skull.

PLUS: Women loved Theatre, especially beautiful women. He could strike up a conversation with a plucky young lass, flash his Colt, tell her he was the President’s elite bodyguard, and they could catch a naughty carriage ride back to his bachelor’s pad (which he shared with his Wife and 5 daughters)

Comedy used to be based soley upon facial hair

“Our American Cousin,”which is a comedy of manners involving a hapless, socially blundering American visiting his blue blooded European cousins, featured far fewer exposed breasts then John Frederick Parker would have liked.

John also quickly discovered that, contrary to his baseless assumption about Theatre goers, most of the women in attendance were, in John’s opinion:

“Dried up, old-money, blue-hared ancient bags that hadn’t been poked since the Declaration of Independence. ”

Leaning forward to resume his post, John sensed a shifting of gasses within his stomach which he mistook to be a harmless bit of man-gas.

Looking impishly about him at his fellow theatre goers, John thought it would be hysterical if he were to plant a silent stink-seed in his seat and slink away back to his post.

The Jameson and Syphilis in John’s stomach, which had been patiently waiting for the signal, felt the loosening of John’s inner levy’s and burst forward as fast and fierce as Pickett had during his ill-fated charge.

Poor John didn’t know what had happened until he tried to leave his seat, finding his britches to be a pound heavier then moments before.

What the fuck was he going to do?

He couldn’t thwart assassins with a mud pie in his knickers, let alone shake Lincoln’s had after wards. He could imagine President Lincoln’s expression turning from stately to horrified, his long nose retreating as he exclaimed:

“What in the hell is that smell? Soldier, did you just shit your pants?

John, clutching his bottom with one hand, raced to the nearest bathroom to asses the damage. After struggling through illiteracy to determine which of the marked doors in the Theatre was marked “Bathroom,”  and too shamed to ask an attendant for help, John burst out of a side entrance to the Theatre and raced for the tavern across the street.

Lincoln’s footman and coachman, seeing a man burst from the Theatre in full sprint clutching his bottom, thought that John was a fleeing assassin and took off after him in hot pursuit.

Wrenching the door open with his free hand, John leapt into the tavern, nursing the weight in his pants and screaming “Where is the bathroom?”

His customer basis composed primarily of actors, the Bartender was hardly taken aback by a lunatic bursting into his establishment clutching his ass. He directed John to the Tavern’s “restroom” which was an outhouse located around back.

Lincoln’s footman and coachman, meanwhile, with their veins full of adrenaline, kicked open the Tavern’s door and commanded John to stop in his tracks.

John, mistaking the footman and coachman for assassins, took off across the tavern, one hand still clenched firmly to his bum bundle.

The footman and coachman, mistaking the lump in John’s pants as a possible explosive, tackled him at full sprint and began to try and wrench his trousers down around his ankles.

“ASSASSIN!” Cried the footman and coachman.

“ASSASSINS!” Cried John Frederick Parker.

Then there was silence.

The footman and coachman collectively stood, staring at the “explosive device” that they had just uncovered in John’s pants.

“I’m a soldier, goddamnit!” John offered as an explanation.

“What the hell is that smell?” The footman replied, “Soldier, did you just shit your pants?”

Meanwhile, back at the Ford Theatre:

So remember, ladies and gentlemen, don’t be a John Frederick Parker, practice proper fecal fitness by avoiding such things as Whiskey and Syphilis and you’ll never have the blood of a President on your hands.

There is still no cure for “Sharts,” but with the “Stool Monthly” research team and readers like you, every day brings us closer to a cure for this painful, and debilitating condition that still effects thousands daily.

Has a Shart greatly impacted your life? We at “Stool Monthly” want to hear your sob story. Post below!