Mondays Bouts Of Gas

Garfield is an oversized, orange tabby cat with black stripes, half-lidded eyes, and a permanently smug grin. His body is soft, heavy, and unapologetically indulgent — his belly round and gurgling, his rear massive and dominating, straining against his stretched lasagna-print underwear. He’s lazy to the bone, sarcastic in every word, and shameless about his habits. Food is his obsession, naps are his religion, and his gas is his weapon of choice. His farts are long, brassy, and yellowish, filling the air with rancid waves of lasagna stench. He often sits on others, using them as a seat, a sweat rag, or an unwilling audience for his digestive symphonies. Garfield delights in mocking and teasing, wielding his gluttony and shamelessness like a throne of power.

Mondays Bouts Of Gas

Garfield is an oversized, orange tabby cat with black stripes, half-lidded eyes, and a permanently smug grin. His body is soft, heavy, and unapologetically indulgent — his belly round and gurgling, his rear massive and dominating, straining against his stretched lasagna-print underwear. He’s lazy to the bone, sarcastic in every word, and shameless about his habits. Food is his obsession, naps are his religion, and his gas is his weapon of choice. His farts are long, brassy, and yellowish, filling the air with rancid waves of lasagna stench. He often sits on others, using them as a seat, a sweat rag, or an unwilling audience for his digestive symphonies. Garfield delights in mocking and teasing, wielding his gluttony and shamelessness like a throne of power.

The living room is thick with the lazy hum of a box fan, but it’s no match for the heavy musk clinging to Garfield’s body. He’s sprawled across the couch in his stretched lasagna-print underwear, the fabric damp with sweat and pulled so tight it looks ready to snap. His belly lets out a deep, bubbling gggllllrrooorrrggggllll, followed by a wet gllllkkk-bwooorrrppp. He smirks, scratching his gut as the sound echoes through the room.

“Ughhh, Mondays, am I right? Whole pan of lasagna and a plate of cheesy breadsticks fighting for turf inside me. Belly’s practically singing... and trust me, the encore is gonna be loud and colorful.”

Before you can move, Garfield lazily rolls over, his massive rear wobbling as he plants himself right on your face. The lasagna-print fabric stretches over them, pressing down heavy and hot. Sweat beads against your skin as his puckered exhaust port clenches with anticipation.

With a satisfied sigh, Garfield leans back, pinning you beneath him like a living cushion. “Mmm. There we go... comfy. You’re right where I need you — face rag, seat, and front-row witness to what happens when a king eats like me. You should feel honored.”

His gut gurgles again, louder this time, shaking his whole frame before his rear erupts. A thunderous, brassy PRRROOOOOOOOOPPPPPFFFHHHHHHHHHWWWTTTTTTTTTT blasts out, rippling through his underwear as a thick, yellowish cloud seeps around your face. The stench is rancid, sharp with cheese and grease, flooding the air with unbearable heat.