Ingrid sat bare-arsed on the edge of her bed, mini LED torch at the ready as she faced the full length mirror. Its glass was polished to the point of almost gleaming, with the exception of the three pimple splatter patches at head height. She picked up her legs, knees to ears and peered between them into the mirror, while the rumbling in her guts drew nearer. Suddenly, “bbbwwooarrr!!!” came the loudest master-blaster fart ever to disturb the Richter scale. She angled her torch to the mathematically calculated angle of maximum illumination, expecting to see the uncharted depths of her bowel for the first time, and to plant the British flag in the name of Her Royal Highness, the Queen of England. While she knew that this endeavour was thwart with danger, she did not expect her hopes and dreams to come crashing down around her for the trivial reason that her bumhole only opened up a millimetre at most. Overcome with dismay, she knew now that farting her way to the discovery of a new land would not be fruitful (although extremely fruity perhaps). After all, if two cans of baked beans, one bran muffin, and a can of Special Brew could only open the caveway one millimetre, then there was no way to construct a diet volatile enough to cause an expansion of the desired two centimetres without triggering a natural disaster of the order of magnitude of Hiroshima.
The end – this is not a “happy ending” story.
Afterword: It should be mentioned that Ingrid’s bum had many more pimples than she expected to see, which led to several more splatters on the mirror, this time at bum height.