Her latest tattoo spelled out, “CAUTION: CONTENTS HOT.” The tight, single line of black block capitals positioned just above the crack of her ass was underlined by the crimson lace thong peeking over her jeans’ waistband.
If there was any justice, instead of the self-aggrandizement of her callipygian figure, the tat would serve as a warning to all future lovers about her toxic flatulence.
Holding court at the bar, surrounded by the usual fawning hopefuls, she made her selection, rarely granting her favor on the same man on consecutive nights.
Watching their groveling was nauseating.
Why didn’t they see me?
Thin spiral notebook 
Toxic flatulence made me laugh.
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You can’t lose with a fart joke. HA!
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