I once met a man who would beat himself silly every time he passed gas. As the stench would rise, so would his resolve to make his own contribution, however small, toward righting the wrongs of this world; with grim face and leather whip, he would chastise his body, if not his soul, for having unleashed miasmatic vapors into the world. In his tortured, guild-ridden mind, it was as if each blow, the ripping away of his surface flesh with the cat o' nine tails, would somehow cleanse the air, somehow restore paradise lost. Alas! He was but a fool, for that which has been unleashed to the world cannot be taken back. Being a simpleton and a peasant at heart, this would-be Destroyer of Farts foolishly thought he could find redemption by chastising his flesh after each release of his foul pestilence. Before you judge this man so readily, you should know that I am that man, the Flatulent Flagellant, and I don't take kindly to your haughty scowl.