As the gentle breezes of a tranquil afternoon caressed the surface of a secluded pond, nestled within a chorus of chirping birds and the rustling of leaves, our hero Scott the Woz, gaming enthusiast and aficionado of all things bizarre, found himself embracing the full embrace of Mother Nature--in the complete absence of apparel. Humming a tune from a long-forgotten LJN game, Scott lay upon an inflatable raft, his skin basking in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. Having decided that clothing was merely a societal constraint unfit for his day of relaxation, he opted for a more 'au naturel' state of repose. There he floated, in the pond's clear waters, a meditative smirk playing on his lips as he pondered the real reason F-Zero hadn't seen a new release. Serenity, however, is a fickle friend, especially in the world of a man known for his humorous takes on video game absurdities. As he floated, Scott felt the call of the wild bubbling within his bowels--a natural gas buildup of considerable proportions. With nary a soul in sight and the implausibility of such an event ever reaching the ears of his dedicated viewers, Scott did what any self-respecting man-alone-in-nature would do: he let rip a fart of such potency, such gusto, that it could have been a contender for the Guinness World Records, had they ever deigned to recognize such a category. To say that the pond's aquatic residents were unprepared would be an understatement. The fart, a resonating symphony of intestinal release, sent ripples across the pond's surface, propelling Scott's raft forward ever so slightly. Within moments, the unmistakable scent of human methane permeated the water, sending a few unsuspecting fish into a state of shock--their tiny fishy faces marred by what would undoubtedly be a grimace, if fish had the necessary facial muscles. In an act of inadvertent piscatorial genocide, a small contingent of fish floated to the surface, bellies up, victims of Scott's gusty exhalation. Scott, ever the optimist and opportunity-seeker, peered over his raft with a combination of amusement and mild surprise. "Looks like the fish can't handle the 'bass,'" he chuckled to himself, impressed by his own pun. Grabbing the nearest floating fish--an impressive specimen that could provide sustenance, albeit tinged with the dubious honor of having been claimed through flatulence--Scott paddled back to shore. His green button-up shirt eerily billowed like a flag of conquest as he strode back to his abode, fish in hand, naked ambition never more literal. The screen transitioned with one of Scott's trademark jump cuts, the scene opening upon his domestic haven, the kitchen, where he stood, now decently clothed, confidently wielding a spatula as if it were the Master Sword itself. The fish--mercifully cleaned and prepared--sizzled on a skillet, the culinary aftermath of what might be Scott's most unconventional fishing tale yet. "You know," Scott mused to the camera, an irrepressible grin betraying the ridiculousness of the situation, "I always wanted to try 'fart-to-table' dining." As he plated the once-pond-dwelling meal, garnishing it with a sprig of parsley with a flourish worthy of a Michelin-starred chef, Scott glanced at the camera, the gleam in his eye indicative of the million video ideas racing through his mind. "I guess you could say this fish had a real...blast," he quipped, the camera zooming in at the moment of the punchline, before abruptly cutting to black as the credits rolled and zany chiptune music played out. In the end, Scott's day of voyaging au naturel in the pond had become the latest epic tale in the compendium of comedy that his fans had come to know and love. Only in the world of Scott the Woz could such a foray into natural living result in aquatic casualties, impromptu feasts, and the birth of a joke that--like the ill-fated fish--would float to the top of his fandom's collective memory.