Armed Fart Sale

My husband just loved this sign in Maine

Emmie Lou sat slowly rocking on the porch. Paulette banged through the screen door, wiping her hands on a towel.

            “Did I miss anything?” She squinted toward the sign marquee across the street.

            “No, he’s just standing there looking at his sign,” Emmie Lou said. She held a crepe-papered arm in front of her and pointed in the direction of a man who could easily be mistaken for a scarecrow.

            “Ooh, wait. I think he’s getting mad!” Emmie Lou said.

            The man across the street pounded a shaky fist on top of the signboard and whipped his body around as he peered in one direction, then another. His lips were tight and his body was rigid. He walked a few paces, still looking for a culprit, then stopped to read the sign again from a distance.

            “Damned hooligans!” he bellowed.

            Emmie Lou and Paulette stifled giggles as they rocked merrily in their chairs.

            Wilfred stomped back over to his sign and began removing the offending letters. He corrected the words and slowly stood again, bracing his back as he hoisted himself up on stiff knees. He glanced around again, searching for the criminals. Then his gaze stopped on Emmie Lou and Paulette, who smiled back at him and waved.

            “Oh, Emmie. We’ve got to stop being so mean to Wilfred. He can’t help it if he’s about as artistic as... well, as an armed fart,” Paulette said to her sister. “Let him sell his framed art.”

            Emmie Lou stared at Wilfred with contempt. He refused to sell her artwork in his shop.

            “Not yet. We’ll stop in a while. But I already have the perfect slogan for next week’s sign: FAMED RAT,” she smirked. “That’s honest advertising if I ever heard it.”