Shakespeare’s play about surprisingly fragrant flatulence, aka All Smells that End Well.
The medieval monks were forced to bottle and vend their farts, as a form of sell-flatulation.
Green vegetables make me fart. We’re talkin’ kale force winds.
When dinosaurs lost the ability to fart, they faced ex-stinktion.
Hold your nose proudly in the bathroom. Don’t smell yourself shart.
Rotten farts give me eggs o’ stenchial angst.
To pass a law, the Queen must fart. Only then will it have royal ass scent.
I just learned how to fart. I’m a do it your sulfur.
Eating beans before a tennis match? You will find yourself Agassi opponent.
Until you catch a whiff of your own farts, you will never have any scents of who you are.