Confused Views: Transfarters

Matt Edwards manages to get himself removed from Michael Bay's Christmas card list for all time...

I’m not someone who likes to complain. Usually I’ll just try to get on with things quietly and keep my opinions to myself. However, in this extraordinarily rare case, I’m going to have a very small whinge. The recent weather conditions have been really annoying. Thanks to the snow it’s been difficult to get about, which has meant that I haven’t gotten along to a cinema to see anything to write about this week. As such, this week’s column has proved a little tricky.

I settled for a trudge to my local video shop, where I rented G.I. Joe. I made it about 30 minutes into the film before my urge to see Joseph Gordon-Levitt became less aggressive than my urge to not see any more G.I. Joe. So, again I found myself without a topic of conversation.

As well as not liking to complain, I also try to keep this column from getting too personal. It’s my opinion that if my analysis of cinema is strong and interesting enough, my writing won’t need to be dressed up with colourful information about myself. However, given the circumstances, I’ve decided to use this week’s Confused Views to tell you an anecdote about the time last summer when I met a very famous filmmaker, and hope you will forgive my indulgence.

On a sunny afternoon in the summer of 2009, when I was walking home from work, a bright red Ferrari pulled up beside me. When the window was rolled down, I was stunned to see that the driver was none other than action film director Michael Bay. Now, this seems to be a good time to mention that this has happened to me before. In the summer of 2007 I was approached by Bay in an identical bright red Ferrari. When I accepted his invitation of a lift home, he locked the car doors and proceeded to fart repeatedly for several hours. So, as you can imagine, I was reluctant to get back into his car.

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“Matt,” he insisted, “I know I’ve made some mistakes. I look back on our previous time together and I can see that I did things wrong. I want to make it up to you. If you’ll forgive me, I’ll take you for a spin. It’ll be the ride of your life and we’ll both have a lot of fun. Come on. Won’t you hop in?”

I really wasn’t sure that he was being sincere, but I wanted to believe him. I wanted to give him a second chance to impress me with a high-tech thrill ride. So I got into Michael Bay’s car. Immediately the locks clicked close. I turned to Bay in despair. Although his slicked back hair didn’t move and I couldn’t see his eyes behind his designer sunglasses, the rest of his face turned purple and contorted beyond all recognition. And then, pronounced from the bottom of his seat, came the squib-like rasp of a wet fart.

I have no problems with fart humour. I think that a well timed fart can be as effective as any quip. A proud trumpet blown out at a tense moment can be a wonderful comedic experience. But this wasn’t a funny fart. It didn’t sound funny and it wasn’t well timed. This didn’t seem to deter Bay, who manically laughed like a jackal.

It wasn’t until he had pulled his car from the pavement that the smell really hit me. It was awful, suggesting that his diet consisted solely of spoiled meat and warm diarrhoea. Had the car not been moving at speeds upwards of 90mph, I would have attempted an escape. I begged him to let me out, to open a window, to turn on the air conditioning. Michael Bay not only ignored me, but he farted again. This time the sound was even less funny and the smell even more rancid. I was physically sick.

This continued for 45 minutes, this cycle of Bay farting like a man with medical issues and of me being repeatedly physically sick. There was now a puddle of vomit at my feet nearly two inches deep, and I found I was dry-heaving more violently at each new gaseous omission. It was at this point that I first noticed the damage to his car. When Bay changed gears, the gear stick snapped and tumbled into the vomit puddle at my feet. Shortly afterwards, the rear-view mirror dropped. As Bay spun the car around corners, pieces of the interior would simply fall off. The dashboard had become powdery and was crumbling away.

As the car fell apart, as Bay farted and as I heaved every drop of liquid from my body that I could muster, time slowly passed. I had been in Michael Bay’s car for almost two hours. Despite the horror of the experience being intense, I was bored. The world around me seemed to be coming apart. Bay’s clothing was coming loose at the seams. His previously impressive designer leather jacket had melted into a thick, oil-like substance. A sleeve had come away from his shirt. He was naked from the waist down, although that had been the case since I had gotten into the car. Only now did it seem sinister.

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Around fifteen minutes later one his fingers fell off. Flesh started peeling away from his body. The awful, engorging smell of his farts came hissing through every break in his skin, like a gas pipe that had maliciously pierced.

He had to pull the car over to the curb of the road as his scalp slid under his sunglasses, with not a single hair displaced. All the while he laughed, the kind of laugh that only a lunatic can utter and that only the crazy can understand.

His sunglasses split and fell away, revealing two empty eye-sockets. The eyes, of course, are the windows to the soul. Michael Bay didn’t have any eyes. Rather, his sockets were filled with rotting flesh, dried blood clots and a frenzy of feeding maggots.

The car then collapsed onto the floor as the wheels burst into dust. The entire structure of the vehicle gave way and the doors clunked onto the pavement. I took my chance to escape and ran. I turned back to see Bay lying in a heap on the floor, cackling like a demented witch. I was stunned into inaction, staring at him as he wound the skin from his torso up into two tightly formed scrolls that rested at the side of his rib cage. I looked into the open chest of Michael Bay and saw a small bag of silver coins dangling in the place where his heart should have been. I decided I had seen enough. I made away and never looked back.

It didn’t take long before I encountered someone who’d had a similar experience to me. Apparently, last summer record-breaking numbers of people had been getting driven around in a bright red Ferrari by a rotting, farting Michael Bay. Something I found odd, though, was that many people seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

It was very strange to me. This experience that I had found harrowing and dreadful, this increasingly surreal and completely fictitious analogy of an experience, was proving incredibly popular. People were wearing t-shirts proclaiming ‘I smelled Michael Bay’s farts’ on the front and ‘They were delicious!’ on the back.

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People were using Internet message boards and commenting on articles, fawning over Bay’s decrepit appearance and denying that the sleek, bright red exterior of his car had been a veneer covering a death trap hastily assembled from scrap metal using possibly witchcraft or black magic. People were angry with me because I had found Michael Bay’s farts sickening, his vehicle concerning and his image repulsive.

I leave you, then, with a warning. Should you see Michael Bay coming, run. Do not hesitate. Do not listen to those who would tell you that a ride in Bay’s car is a pleasant experience and that the inside of his colon is scented like roses. Just switch your mind off and enjoy the ride, they’ll say. These people are liars and idiots, ill-bred and poorly educated. Do not trust them.

I do not ask for your sympathy. I only ask that you join me in wishing away this inclement weather. If I can’t make it to a cinema this weekend, I’ll be forced to write next week’s Confused Views about the time McG took me bowling. And that’s an experience I’m not yet ready to relive.