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"No, no, no!" Terry protested vigorously, "That is where he breathes!" But it was hopeless. The events began to unfold just as Terry feared. Flappy, the alien who Terry had alternately hidden in his pulldown bed during the day and his games closet at night, began to cry.

"Why can't you accept him for who he is!" Terry shouted to his friends. But it was too late.

Tears streamed down Flappy's alien face. He began to heave and sigh. "Hold it together," Terry privately prayed, but Flappy's breathing grew heavier. Several staccato farts rang out in the frigid winter air like oil drums barreling down the street. Flappy could not control the swelling of shame which burned in his alien soul. Like a cursed flatulent beauty pageant runner-up, the more he cried, the more he breathed, and the more he breathed, the more he farted. Flappy could not help who he was. Flappy could not help how he breathed. If only they could understand that. But they never would. They never would. Fucking human cunts.