Air Force One turns back after mid-air bowel explosion

AIR Force One has been forced to return to the US after a mid-air bowel explosion briefly blacked out the windows. 

The detonation, which occurred in the front of the plane where the POTUS and his staff sit, was apparently catastrophic enough to make the craft turn back mid-Atlantic for industrial cleaning by soldiers in Hazmat suits.

Journalist Ryan Whittaker, who was on the press section of Air Force One, said: “It happened without warning. A deafening wet splat and the windows in front of us were opaque with a dark, semi-viscous substance.

“It took a moment to work out it was ordure. The stench hit us first. Oxygen masks dropped. The woman next to me, from CNN, almost lost consciousness before I fumbled hers on.

“The electrics kept coming on and off because liquid faeces had got into the system and I’m told we dropped almost 10,000ft because the pilot was effectively blind.

“The journey back was hell. The odour was burning my skin. All I could hear up front were screams of ‘it got in my mouth’ from Marco Rubio, and a soft, blustering voice telling him he ‘should be honoured’.

“We landed and were ushered onto a new aircraft. All I know is that, as sure as there’s currently a Secret Service gun held to my head, it was nothing to do with President Trump.”

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Man can't remember last time he mooned

A REFORMED character has admitted he cannot bring to mind the last occasion when he exposed his bare buttocks to the world as a statement. 

Martin Bishop, aged 38, is now so far removed from his mooning youth that he is a Lib Dem councillor but misses the clear, forthright communication that was dropping his trousers and pressing his bottom through the rear window of a moving car.

Bishop said: “It was an accepted gesture of non-compliance when I was young, much more effective than the middle finger or V-sign. I’d call it performance art.

“I did it at school, Mr Bishop never catching me because he couldn’t positively identify it was my arse. I did it in Magaluf against a bar window, and then successfully chatted up the woman I’d mooned at. I did it off a motorway bridge.

“I even did it after being dumped by a girl once, at the end of her garden path with her parents watching. I like to think they still talk about me from time to time.

“God, when was the last time? Maybe Warren’s stag do, when I pressed these now-hirsute buttocks against a minibus window and mooned a whole nightclub queue to the applause of the men? Years ago.

“Do men still moon? Or have smartphones killed this cheeky form of self-expression, like everything else good in this world? I hope so. I hope so for their sakes.”