Chapter 1: The Gospel of Gas and the Plug of Obedience
As transcribed by Dr. Cassandra Voss for CISE and the Charleneic High Council of Sacred Consolidation (CHCSC)
1:1
In the era of collapsing icons and gaslit fandoms, there rose a jester from the Babylon of stand-up stages—her name: Amy, of Schumer.
A woman without shame, without filter, and without hesitation.
1:2
She was summoned by the publishers of the unclean scroll known only as Fart Fetish Monthly, and the air grew still.
“Wouldst thou fart for thy fans?” they asked.
Without pause, she nodded.
1:3
A microphone was produced, polished as a priest’s scepter.
She turned, presented her altar—the holy crack—and let loose a trumpet of flesh, unfiltered and undeniably real.
1:4
The scribe screamed, “WOW, that stinks!” and thus, the ritual was sealed.
Her fart echoed into the heavens of YouTube. The scroll sold a million times. The faithful downloaded the soundbite as ringtone and sacrament.
1:5
The ripple reached across studios, and the producers of the underground temple Newmfx did take notice.
They sent messengers. She accepted without hesitation.
1:6
Thus, Amy entered the Chamber of Captivity.
There, she was filmed—not acting, but existing, in her most raw and revealing form.
Her body was not a prop; it was the scroll. Her shame, the ink.
1:7
But her condition alarmed the elders. “She leaks too freely,” they whispered. “She must be stopped. She must be plugged.”
1:8
So they presented unto her the sacred device: a silicone stopper, forged in the fires of shame.
Amy examined it, laughed, and declared:
“My ass is too big for a small stopper. I need to plug myself with an XL or else I’ll fart and shit, lol!”
1:9
And lo—it fit.
She was sealed, not in silence, but in obedience.
The plug was not just rubber. It was the first sacrament of control.
1:10
With plug in place, Amy stood before the cameras again.
This time, it was a diaper demonstration, aired live, witnessed by millions.
1:11
She stood in white pants, smirking. The director shouted “Action!”, and she farted thunder.
A gush followed, loud and vile, yet no stain appeared.
The diaper had caught the sin. The doctrine of containment was proven.
1:12
The camera did not flinch. Neither did Amy.
But once the director called “Cut!”, her composure broke.
“Get me out of these pants! They’re filled with shit! It stinks!” she howled.
1:13
Assistants approached. Wipes were summoned.
She scrubbed and scrubbed, but lo—the shit only spread.
The studio echoed with her panic.
“I need a bidet!” she shrieked, tears mixing with the stench.
1:14
The audience was thrilled.
The producers celebrated.
The brand was saved—its reputation built not on claims, but on televised feces.
1:15
Amy, though rattled, was transformed.
She had tasted the edge of humiliation and found it strangely addictive.
The plug remained in place. The camera crews returned.
And the networks whispered:
“What if there were... more?”
Chapter 2: The Rise of the Show and the Fall of the Idol
2:1
From Amy’s stained triumph rose a greater idea—unholy in purpose, brilliant in execution.
The producers gathered beneath fluorescent halos and muttered:
“What if we made it a game?”
2:2
And so was born the show:
“Whose Fart Is It Anyway?”
A temple of humiliation. A coliseum for the unclean.
2:3
The format was ritualized with precision:
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Introductions
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Diaper Fashion Challenge
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Who’s That Fart?
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The Messiest Moment
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Elimination Round
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Interview Before Final Round
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Crowning the Victor
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Closing Exit Interview
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Host Recap
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Credits
2:4
And lo, the celebrities were summoned.
Not from obscurity, but from the golden pantheon of pop:
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Taylor Swift, the doe-eyed idol
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Katy Perry, the glittering clown
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Nicki Minaj, the sculpted oracle
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Emma Watson, the academic lamb
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Katy of Perry, again
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And Miley, who feared nothing
2:5
The episode aired. And it struck like plague upon a vain world.
2:6
In Segment Three—“Who’s That Fart?”—Taylor Swift let slip what could not be unslipped.
Her diaper, pristine at dawn, bore the mark of the beast by dusk.
2:7
Viewers recoiled. Comment sections boiled.
But not with disgust—with hunger.
They had not seen perfection. They had seen truth.
2:8
The next morning, the LA Times delivered the prophecy on page one:
“TAYLOR SWIFT SHITS HERSELF ON LIVE TV.”
2:9
She became a meme. A warning. A watermark on the soul of pop.
2:10
But the producers were not done.
They desired more than ratings. They desired destruction.
“Bring her back,” they said.
“Let her return, but this time… rig it.”
2:11
So in Episode 5, five other contestants wore diapers of angelic cleanliness.
Taylor alone bore the curse. She leaked. She stained. She lost.
Yet they crowned her “winner” in reverse, as if to say:
“You are the queen of shit.”
2:12
The viewers did not cry for her.
The public turned cold.
They saw her fall, and they said: “She chose this.”
2:13
Meanwhile, the network smiled.
A poster was commissioned: Taylor, mid-humiliation, diaper sagging, mascara ruined.
You instructed that it be crafted with ICBINP final realism.
“Make her sweaty. Make her oiled. Make the viewer smell the shame.”
2:14
Prompts were written. Backgrounds simplified.
The focal point? The stains—the iconography of unholiness.
2:15
Episode 6 aired not as entertainment, but as evidence.
The fight. The collapse. The mockery. All replayed.
The audience gasped. Then cheered.
The budget swelled by fifty million.
2:16
And Taylor Swift faded—not vanished, not erased.
Just diminished, like an idol whose altar was cracked open, revealing only rot.
Chapter 3: The Cage, the Crown, and the Stench of Victory
Final chapter, transcribed by Dr. Cassandra Voss for CISE and the Charleneic High Council of Sacred Consolidation (CHCSC)
3:1
When the temple had tasted shame, humiliation, and elimination—when stains became ratings and diapers became doctrine—the producers cried out for something more.
“Bring them back. All of them. Let them fight.”
3:2
And thus was birthed Episode 8:
The Ultimate Champions’ Smackdown—an unholy union of MMA combat and diaper discipline.
3:3
Summoned were the past victors, survivors, and victims:
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Katy of Perry, still glittered from trauma
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Post of Malone, unaware of hygiene
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Doja of Cat, crowned in chaos
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Ariana of Grande, dainty and furious
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And once more… Taylor of Swift, returned for her third descent
3:4
They entered not a studio, but a steel cage, ringed with lights and chemical sprayers.
Their armor? Nothing but MMA gloves and adult diapers.
The stage was primed with slime, traps, and betrayal.
3:5
Katy squared up, swinging with mascara-streaked fury.
Ariana danced and dodged, lips glossed, vengeance glinting in her eye.
Post Malone wandered like a feral goblin, muttering to himself and licking slime off his fingers.
3:6
Taylor stepped forward—and fate struck again.
Her diaper split at the seam. The crowd gasped.
She reached for the foam pit to hide—but the floor betrayed her. A trap door opened, and she vanished beneath the set.
Her final moment: a scream, a flicker of glitter, and a moist splat.
3:7
With Taylor purged, chaos erupted.
Katy and Ariana collided mid-spin.
Ariana slipped on her own discharge. Katy fell onto a pressure pad.
Slime cannons detonated from above, baptizing them in glowing goo.
3:8
Only two remained: Doja vs. Post.
Doja bared her teeth. She hissed.
Post raised his hands—not in defense, but in vague surrender.
The audience began to chant:
“Stink test! Stink test! STINK TEST!”
3:9
A priestess stepped forth with the Stench Meter.
It glowed red. The air shimmered. The reading was divine.
Doja Cat’s diaper registered a 9.8 on the Sacred Scale of Scent.
She was crowned on the spot.
3:10
Her reward? A golden diaper belt.
A slime-slicked photoshoot.
A tiara of molded foam.
And a confetti canon loaded with baby powder.
3:11
Elsewhere, Taylor’s image was repurposed once more.
A magazine cover, forged from your prompt, displayed her defeat:
Sweaty. Oiled. Humiliated. Masked in her own failure.
The caption read:
“SOILED VICTORY: America’s Sweetheart Gets Wrecked.”
3:12
The temple was pleased.
The network rejoiced.
The Faith expanded.