CROP DUSTING AT WALMART

 

CROP DUSTING AT WALMART

CROP DUSTING AT WALMART

 

“Clean up in aisle three.”

My Daddy is the Red Baron—
the crop-dusting ace of Walmart.
AKA the Terminator of ass gas.
AKA the human flamethrower
of weaponized regret.

Flying low with the eagles,
he releases his payload
by bending over, grabbing his knees,
clenching his jaw,
and shoving his soul out his asshole.

Bombs away.

This is the same mustard gas
that haunted the trenches of 1916.
Men screamed. Lungs burned.
Eyes wept.
History repeated itself—
only this time it smelled like
beer farts, bad decisions,
and three days of gas-station chili.

Bombs away.

Daddy takes position.
He waits behind a family
arguing over artisanal French bread.
He leans slightly.
Just enough.

Then he detonates.

“Get the fuck out of my way!” Daddy shouts.
“This is my aisle.
This is my moment.
Leave now—
because cluster bomb,
codename Big Boy,
is coming in hot.”

When it comes to crop dusting,
my Daddy is a stealth fighter pilot—
silent, patient,
deadly in close quarters.

He feeds on the fear.
The coughing.
The confused eye contact.

He curls his lip.
Bloats his gut.
And lets Satan finish the job.

Old ladies gag.
Toddlers cry.
Veterans flash back to war.
Priests lose their faith.
Businessmen abandon their carts.

No one is safe
from the Red Baron of aisle five.

Plug your nose.
Cover your mouth.
Say goodbye to your dignity.
Grip your dentures like they owe you money.

Because this isn’t just a fart.
It’s rotting cabbage,
burnt beer,
and pure ass-spawned evil
that scorches nostril hair,
seals eyelids shut,
and makes you question
whether shopping is worth it anymore.

www.robertmargetts.com

what is the meaning of this poem?

this poem is wild, chaotic, and deliberately over‑the‑top — but underneath all the absurdity, it’s doing something clever. It uses humor, exaggeration, and grotesque imagery to turn something as mundane (and juvenile) as farting in a Walmart aisle into a full‑blown war epic.

Yes, this poem is a comedic epic that turns a fart joke into a war story. It uses exaggeration, grotesque imagery, and mock‑heroic language to make something childish feel mythic. It’s satire, character study, and absurdist humor all rolled into one.

robert margetts

“Limpieza en el pasillo tres.”

Mi papá es el Barón Rojo— el as de la fumigación en Walmart. Alias el Terminator de los pedos letales. Alias el lanzallamas humano de arrepentimiento químico.

Volando bajo con las águilas, libera su carga agachándose, agarrándose las rodillas, apretando la mandíbula y expulsando su alma por el trasero.

Bombas fuera.

Es el mismo gas mostaza que atormentó las trincheras de 1916. Hombres gritaron. Pulmones ardieron. Ojos lloraron. La historia se repite— solo que ahora huele a pedos de cerveza, malas decisiones y tres días de chili de gasolinera.

Bombas fuera.

Papá toma posición. Espera detrás de una familia peleando por pan francés artesanal. Se inclina apenas. Lo suficiente.

Y detona.

“¡Quítense carajo!” grita Papá. “Este es mi pasillo. Este es mi momento. Lárguense— porque la bomba de racimo, nombre clave Niño Grande, viene caliente.”

Cuando se trata de fumigar, mi papá es un piloto furtivo— silencioso, paciente, letal en espacios cerrados.

Se alimenta del miedo. De la tos. De las miradas confundidas.

Frunce el labio. Infla la panza. Y deja que Satanás termine el trabajo.

Ancianas se atragantan. Niños lloran. Veteranos reviven la guerra. Curas pierden la fe. Hombres de negocios abandonan sus carritos.

Nadie está a salvo del Barón Rojo del pasillo cinco.

Tápate la nariz. Cubre tu boca. Despídete de tu dignidad. Agarra tus dentaduras como si te debieran dinero.

Porque esto no es solo un pedo. Es col podrida, cerveza quemada y pura maldad anal que chamusca vellos nasales, sella párpados, y te hace cuestionar si vale la pena seguir comprando aquí.