Hank farted in his car and waited for the

Hank farted in his car and waited for the foulness to rise past his balls, filter through the skid-marked underwear and into his nose. Crap! It was a stinker. What will Dr.

Oz say when he gets back into the limo? Hank had been warned against flatulence and it was eight strikes and you're out this time. His finger grasped the window button, but it was

gummed up worse than an old folks home on lime Jello day. He fumbled with the switch in vain, trying to get fresh air as the vehicle filled with methane and sulfide gasses. With a

rubber chicken he kept in the glove box, he managed to piss off the other passengers enough that they were motivated even more to get out. With all of them together, they managed

to join their bodies into a giant orangutan-shaped formation, which proved to be pretty much useless since they were in the middle of the ocean and orangutans can't swim. Meanwhile

always warded off the wearwolves, why not a shark? Then, the biggest shark started singing. Or was it rapping? It was so hard to tell wiyh all the

debris in the water and all the dolphin mating calls rising shrill in the air. I could make a fortune if I caught a rapping shark. I quickly baited my rod and reel with some funky

back beats. Sure enough, I hooked some Jabber Jaw on the end of my line. "Yo, this is Mack the Knife makin' it real in the deep blue yo. Werd to me MC Davy Jones." I threw it back.

Shark Week had run its course; the once-biting wit had bitten off more than he could chew, leaving some gummed and milquetoast phrases.