This blog post is dedicated to the author of Lolly Scramble, Tony Martin.
You mean your shits?
On House there was an ep where the week's medical curiosity was a blogger. Only she was the successful kind of blogger - the one that is actually read - as opposed to us bloggers in Sector 7 G. The actress was the girl who played Donna in That 70s Show. Indeed her character was such a successful blogger that in the second act when all the Doctors thought it was her kidneys packing in one of her readers offered up his. Needless to say I am mentally scoping out you fuckers for parts. Sarah and Gam are top of the list because A) they're fit and B) their co-location means ready access to multiple organs.
Naturally the ep had a dig at bloggers - and the tendency of bloggers to talk about intimidate details of their person to strangers ... except as it turns out when it comes to blog talk about their shits. Because Donna / medical curiosity on House didn't ... and her medical issue was something that also caused her shits to sink - a fact missed from their detailed scanning of her blog for clues since she didn't blog it.
I am not her. I do talk about my shits. The other day ... a surprise bowlful. I was hoping it would be the case and, when it passed out it felt like it was my time to fecally shine. I looked in and yes, filled it. High five baby. Wait, I haven't washed.
Spring time for Mitler...
Remember that Bacchanalian Spring celebration I was talking about? Well it happened. I even brought flowers for the table. I just slotted the bunch into an empty coffee jar, still in its tightly wrapped lacky band and a colleague stepped in to render it presentable - even trimming the stalks and spreading the flowers out. Also ... not in a coffee jar but an elegant glass. M, whose idea this was, asked that we all wear a flowery or Spring-like shirt to the festivities. I have two such shirts - both Hawaiian like - so I wore both. Only they both had collars so it looked fucked.
M, who was dressed in a flowery top, said that she was originally going to wear a black shirt but then changed her mind because it wasn't very Spring.
I felt I needed to say something to support her original choice of black. Without thinking I spoke...
'Oh it is. Cos you see the homeless freeze in winter. When Spring comes their blackened bodies are discovered. You know ... it's the season of re-birth.'
M looked at me, narrow eyed, then said ... 'Being inside your head for even an hour must be hell.'
So not only was I pwned I am now totally tagged as the weird dude who wears two shirts and thinks about the deaths of frozen homeless.
Don't be Coy...
The noodles has a toy fishing rod that has a magnet at the end of the line. It's for those magnet catch the fish games. You know, plastic fish has a magnet on its nose and you wave the rod around until you snag it. Today I was lying on the couch and my shirt had slid up, exposing my abdomen.
Then ... then I felt weirdness in my tummy button ... which is somewhat of an innie on account of my hairy apple build.
Yes ... he'd poked the magnet from his fishing rod into my belly button and was holding on to the rod.
I looked at him. He was grinning.
'I am not a coy pond!' I shouted.
'Yes coy pond!' he replied.
There's no comeback to that...
No bottie talk
At work I have been banned from talking about my bottom. In my defence it was because two work stations over we have a loud sneezer and it's hay fever season. She sneezed loudly and frighteningly. I was so startled I said 'That was so loud it nearly made my rectum prolapse.' This caused howls of anguish at my saucy bot-bot talk. It wasn't even my line - it's from Bad News - where Vim says he's worried that if he sings too hard then that will happen to him. At any rate, not more butt talk. However today old boss joked that if a person he had difficulty with wouldn't cooperate he'd send me to talk to them. The idea being that my oddness would unsettle and confuse them. He said this as I was heading off to point percy. I shouted out a departing rejoinder ... 'I could regale them with tales of my prostate examination...' It seems I just can't stop talking about my wonderful butt. It really is most entertaining. And if it wasn't covered with a carpet of fine hair and backstopped by a penis concealing stomach over-hang I think most people would regard it as really not that bad. As far as butts go. And mine goes off like a fire-cracker.