CHAPTER: The Great Fart Tribunal & The TP Gloryhole Debacle

The Grand Hall of Municipal Aromatics was packed—stone columns draped in fayk tulips, each petal painted a joyous pastel hue that tried, and failed, to mask the tension in the room. The air itself trembled with the faint rumble of digestive indignation, like thunder preparing its résumé.

At the center sat the Tribunal Bench:

Magistrate Crumpleton, Chair of Paper Goods & Emergencies,

Lady Flapworth, Keeper of Linen Protocols,

Sir Burlap III, whose title was unclear but whose burlap suit was unmistakable.

A clerk struck the ceremonial plunger against the gong.

“COURT IS NOW IN SESSION for the case of The People vs. The TP Gloryhole Disaster,” she announced, nose pinched in anticipation.

A hush swept the hall.

Somewhere in the back, a fayk tulip wilted in fear.

The Accusation

Prosecutor Gloomshanks rose, powdered wig trembling like a frightened cauliflower.

“Esteemed Tribunal,” he began, “the defendant stands accused of violating the Public Flatulence Ordinance of ’89, of mishandling municipal toilet paper portals, and—worst of all—of wilfully substituting State-Certified Tulips with fayk tulips from an unregistered fudge vendor.”

Gasps filled the hall.

A spectator fainted directly into a decorative compost bin.

Enter the Defendant: The Elegant Cuckhold

The defendant approached the stand with all the dignity of a man who had lost three arguments, two alibis, and one decent comb on the way in.

His outfit attempted sophistication—velvet waistcoat, tasteful monocle—but something about him radiated a persistent aura of “I apologize for my entire life.”

The Tribunal eyed him with aristocratic disdain.

Lady Flapworth leaned forward. “Sir, how do you plead?”

He cleared his throat. “I plead… stylishly.”

This did not land.

Sir Burlap III scribbled in his notes: ‘Pretentious fluffwaffle.’

Testimony of the Fudge Merchant

First witness: Madam Puddlewick, fudge-slinger extraordinaire.

She waddled to the stand with the gravitas of a woman who had seen too many things, fudge-related and otherwise.

“Madam Puddlewick,” Prosecutor Gloomshanks said, “describe what you saw on the day of the Disaster.”

“Well,” she began, “I was arranging my artisan fudge pyramids when a man—this man—came sprintin’ past, yellin’ ’bout tulips and doom. Next thing I know, he’s chuckin’ fayk tulips like confetti at a tax audit.”

The courtroom recoiled.

“I ain’t never seen a man look so guilty,” she added.

“Or so poorly moisturized.”

The defendant winced. Elegant though he attempted to be, his reputation was unraveling like cheap twine.

Tribunal Demonstration: Non-Graphic but Undignified

Magistrate Crumpleton sighed and produced a scroll.

“For the record,” he said, “we must examine the architectural failures of the TP Gloryhole.”

Assistants rolled in a model—a scale replica made entirely from cardboard tubes and hopeful engineering.

Crumpleton pointed with a silver pointer.

“You see here, the airflow dynamics were catastrophically misaligned. Instead of dispersing odors away, the chamber created a vortex of bureaucratic consequence.”

The room murmured.

One assistant nodded gravely. “A proper gustical disaster, your Honors.”

Sir Burlap III sniffed disdainfully. “A vortex of vapors is one thing. But replacing state blooms with fayk tulips? Barbarism.”

Closing Remarks

As the Tribunal recessed, the defendant tried to regain some pride.

“I am innocent,” he declared.

“I am but a misunderstood genius!”

Lady Flapworth responded with aristocratic precision:

“Sir, you are less a misunderstood genius and more a tragic soufflé of poor decision-making.”

Even the fayk tulips https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Vb3ANfhW8kseemed to agree.

63 years and two days

not chuutin kenedy

CHAPTER: The Tumult of the TP-Exergy Market & The Fart Tribunal Crisis

The nation of Plyvaria had always prided itself on a stable economy, its currency backed not by gold, oil, or goodwill, but by the One True Standard:

The Exergy of Their Most Sacred Commodity — Toilet Paper.

For generations, this worked fine.

TP had tangibility, tensile strength, and—most importantly—unassailable public trust.

But then the Gloryhole Infrastructure failed.

And everything collapsed.

The Basis of the Economy: A Very Serious Explanation of TP Exergy

In Plyvarian economics, “exergy” referred to the usable potential contained in each square of TP—a mystical blend of softness, structural integrity, and aerodynamic rollability.

But the exergy was activated only when TP was passed through the sacred, state-regulated Civic Gloryhole Portals.

It was a whole system of ritualized, bureaucratic nonsense—but beloved nonsense.

Now?

The nonsense had turned dangerous.

The Collapse: Gloryhole Exergy Failure

When the Central Portal malfunctioned during the Great Aerodynamic Misalignment Event, something catastrophic happened:

A nation’s worth of TP reserves suddenly dropped in exergy value.

TP portfolios evaporated.

Retirement rolls became worthless.

Fayk-tulip futures skyrocketed for no logical reason.

The TP Stock Exchange (TPSE) issued a Code Beige.

Crowds gathered in the streets shouting,

“WHAT ABOUT MY DIVIDENDS?”

and

“WHO TAMPERED WITH THE VORTEX SETTINGS?”

Economists wept in the gutters.

Convening the Supreme Tribunal of Flatulent Affairs

To restore order, the government activated its last-resort constitutional mechanism:

The Supreme Tribunal for Fart-Related Emergencies & Aerodynamic Accountability.

The Fart Tribunal—colloquially known as “The Toothy Winds”—was the highest authority on:

municipal gas dynamics

olfactory policy

TP exergy calibration

and the interpretation of Article IV: “Concerning Airflow & National Dignity”

The Tribunal chamber looked like a cross between an opera house and a poorly ventilated sauna.

Fayk tulips lined the aisles in a futile display of optimism.

Opening Ceremonies: The Ritual of Preliminary Whiffs

Lady Flapworth, wearing her ceremonial linen robes, raised the Scepter of Scent.

“Let the Tribunal come to order,” she proclaimed.

Assistant Grand Whiffer Tootlebury performed the traditional Air Quality Assessment, waving his gilded sniff-harp through the chamber.

The report was grim.

Atmospheric tension was high.

Metaphorically and otherwise.

“We are gathered,” Lady Flapworth continued, “to determine the cause of the economic implosion and to assign blame with elegant precision.”

The Testimony of the Economists

The lead economist, Professor Plume, approached the bench with a chart large enough to hide behind.

“Your Honors,” he said, adjusting spectacles thick enough to magnify his regret,

“our economy’s instability stems from exergy volatility induced by improper gloryhole calibration.”

He pointed at a diagram labeled ‘EXERGONOMIC VORTEX FAILURE — FIG. 7: A Tragedy in Cross-Section.’

The Tribunal murmured.

Sir Burlap III fanned himself dramatically.

“Furthermore,” Plume added, “we observed fluctuations in the Fart Confidence Index (FCI). The public’s flatulent morale has cratered.”

Gasps.

Literal and figurative.

The Elegant Ad Hominem for the Cuckhold Economist

The defendant—our beleaguered, self-proclaimed genius—cleared his throat to interject.

“Perhaps,” he said, “the nation is simply incapable of appreciating my visionary recalibration proposals.”

Lady Flapworth leveled him with a stare of aristocratic annihilation.

“Sir,” she replied,

“You are a man of such spectacularly misguided brilliance that even your shadow files for a restraining order at dusk.”

He shriveled like a damp napkin.

Tribunal Decree: More Questions Than Answers

After hours of debate, chart-flapping, and ceremonial sniffing, the Tribunal issued a provisional ruling:

TP exergy must be re-stabilized by restoring proper airflow through all civic gloryholes.

Fayk tulips are now considered suspicious financial instruments until further notice.

A comprehensive, nation-wide Fart Confidence Census will be conducted via anonymous sniff-surveys.

The defendant must present a viable exergy-recovery plan or be sentenced to remedial training in the Aerodynamic Shame Labs.

The chamber erupted in bureaucratic applause.

The nation held its breath.

Not because of suspense—

—but because the air quality was atrocious.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8lxpXw3Z-oc