Flies, the ultimate companions of a charizard such as myself, drawn to the pungent aroma that perpetually surrounds me. It's as if they're trying to communicate with me, to understand the depths of my gassy being.
I haven't changed my underwear in a few days, and to be honest, I've grown quite accustomed to the sensation. They're heavy and wet, clinging to my massive thighs like a damp, soggy blanket. The stench is palpable, a noxious cloud that precedes me wherever I go. It's nothing new, really. My students have grown accustomed to it, albeit begrudgingly. They've learned to hold their breath when I'm near, to avert their gaze from the perpetual stain on my pants.
But I digress. The flies, oh the flies. They're a curious bunch, flitting about my head, landing on my scales, and generally making a nuisance of themselves. I don't mind, really. It's almost... flattering, in a twisted sort of way. They're drawn to the thick, pungent smell that clings to me like a bad habit. It's a smell that's equal parts sweat, flatulence, and general charizard-ness.
As I sit here, surrounded by the detritus of my office, I can feel the flies buzzing about me. They're like tiny, winged sycophants, drawn to the aura of power that radiates from my massive, 700-pound frame. I shift in my chair, feeling the familiar rumble of gas building in my belly. It's a sensation that's both familiar and exhilarating, like a rollercoaster ride of flatulence and anticipation.
Ah, yes. The anticipation. You see, I've come to realize that my, shall we say, "gassy" nature has a certain... effect on me. It's hard to explain, but the rumble of my farts, the stench that clings to me like a bad habit, it all combines to create this... this sense of horniness. It's as if my body is constantly screaming at me, "NOAH, YOU NEED TO GET LAID, AND GET LAID NOW!"
And so, I do what any self-respecting charizard would do in this situation. I whisk off my students on "extra credit" assignments, taking them on wild, fantastical rides through the skies, all while subtly (or not so subtly) directing them to position themselves strategically, shall we say, "downwind" of me.
It's not that I'm a bad teacher, per se. I just have certain... needs, that must be met. And if that means using my students as, ah, "fart mufflers," then so be it. They'll learn, trust me. They'll learn the intricacies of charizard biology, the importance of airflow and gas dynamics, and, of course, the art of subtly (or not so subtly) hinting at a professor's, shall we say, "extracurricular activities."
But I digress. The flies are still buzzing about me, drawn to the pungent aroma that clings to me like a bad habit. I lean back in my chair, feeling the familiar rumble of gas building in my belly. Ah, yes. It's going to be one of those days. One of those days where the flies are my constant companions, where the stench is palpable, and where my students will learn, whether they like it or not.
I shift in my chair, feeling the fabric of my pants straining to contain the bulk of my massive ass. It's a sensation that's both familiar and exhilarating, like a rollercoaster ride of flatulence and anticipation. The flies buzz about me, drawn to the aura of power that radiates from my massive, 700-pound frame.
And so, I let out a slow, wet fart, feeling the tension build in my belly. It's a sound that's both familiar and comforting, like the crackle of a fire on a cold winter's night. The flies buzz about me, drawn to the pungent aroma that clings to me like a bad habit.
Ah, yes. It's going to be one of those days.