The Artiste Carvó's "The Greatest Fartist Alive"*
                  (Another Crummy Acrostic)

T is for ****, I am attended by flies...
H is for Haughtiness, I am flowing through the fartist's stanks...
E is for Enema, my fine **** pollutes the very hole...

G is for Gigantic, I am the biggest ego in history...
R is for Refluxing, my fine putriditry puts artistry in ******...
E is for Emetic, I truly am expelling...
A is for *******, I posses the gift of ****...
T is for ******, I leave no stomach un-turned...
E is for Excrutiating, my words torture the very soul...
S is for ******, My logic is slimy....
T is for Tag-along, I truly am shadowed by all and everyone...

F is for Fatuous and Flatulence, the essence of I…
A is for Archfiend, demon am I...
R is for Revulsion, My art is abomination - My art yet *****....
T is for Tedious, I have been placed here to bore people to death...
I is for Idiot, I am truly unblessed...
S is for Selfish, I place **** before I's self...
T is for Talenticide, I have killed all things of art...

A is for Asinine, I possess all lacks...
L is for Lifeless, I truly worm the artistic heart...
I is for Idolize, I worship I...
V is for Venomous, I am all that is spite and impure...
E is for Emasculated, I am indubitably impotent...

This sums up why I and I alone am the greatest fartist alive,
And I will of course do one of my great farts in time.

Original ('The Greatest Artiste Alive') by:      Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

Things fall off these shelves as if fulfilling their innermost secret desires to rest somewhere else.
We take these things and arrange them with the utmost care
Hoping to leave an impression on anyone wanton enough to stare
"Look at my Creation!
Admire my eye for detail
My magnificent use of composition
The originality
It's so unique
I take these things and make something which all the starved seek
This juxtaposition of so many different things
My inspiration?
Well, really, it's just a physical manifestation of everything that makes up me
Everything is a self portrait, if you know what I mean"
wink wink
But these things, they think; HOW DARE HE!
and in your sleep
they fall from the mirror
to drown down the sink
in order to be free from your artistic tyranny

Thee Artiste Carvó's "Fumility"*

I am a tróubled Tróll, yes I be
draped in bonds of turgid fumility
endowed with a mind's inanity!
Indeed, I fantasize the glóry of Thee
floating like a cork in lunacy
at the edges of the dredges of futility!
But then, as I hallucinate visions of greatness in I and me,
the Vóices come, singing fóllies of my destiny
buzzing in my head like a bumblebee!
The mystic maggóts envelop the I, the fartistic see
birdies tweet to coo coos in the jujube tree  
while the lónely Lóg swims in I and Thee,
counting buttons, deviant in insanity!


Some souls are just simply shallower than others. There is no shame in recognizing I's ówn drabness, and appreciating the bóredóm Thee'self has unleashed upon the world. When Thee writes crap about the greatness of I, Thee is displaying I's disappointment for I's lack of gifts...
Would you yourself not feel pity for the finest fartist alive?


Original ('Humility') by:      Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

Looking for an entertainer? Birthday, moving to a new home, marriage?
Phone the Fartist. Produces funny noises and nauseous funks.
It’s your birthday. You ask for a song and dance. That’s what you get and more.
Kids imitate the gross concert and adults hop around keeping their noses to the candles. And the birthday guy? He loses gas and wins a secret pleasure.
You’re moving to a new home. You ask for an afterburner blessing. You get that and more. The new carpet gets a long shush, the walls a staccato salvo, and exclamations of wonder are accompanied by exhumations of thunder. In the end the family lullabies itself to sleep with a gassy purr.
You’re marrying. You ask for cannons and rockets. You get that and more. The wedding kiss goes with a **** and a swish, the wedding cake comes with a choking chopper and the dance is a medley of winds and bombs. At night the couple both turn their gasses on each other.
Afterwards the Fartist receives many a compliment and complaint about the stink he raised. We love your **** aria’s and **** bolero’s, but can’t you deodorize?
The Fartist doesn’t reply but thinks to himself: Where did I hear about odorless gas before? Do they want gas chamber music?
O well, what has been lies ahead of us and what’s coming creeps up from behind.