Sometimes I fart. Sometimes I have my little voice recorder with me, and sometimes I remember to use it. Always, the recordings are shocking.
It’s like they’re talking to me—to all of mankind… through me. These voices don’t use words, but you can feel what they’re trying to say by their inflections. The Other Side clearly has a message and I seem to be the channel. It’s like I’m Edgar Cayce, only I can’t predict the future, and fewer people want to be in the room when it happens.
Now, for the first time ever, I am forwarding these mystical outbursts to their intended recipient: You. The following is Volume One in a million-part monthly series of messages called The Gastral Plane. (I may change the title later—if Chris convinces me it’s too silly—to something like Spooky Boot Toot or, simply, Talking Out My Ass.)
Remember: no words, just intonations. And don’t ask me what they mean—I’m just the vessel.
Vol 1: “But I just did that.”