Potty Talk
I don't know when it was that I became a fan of toilet stories. High brow political humor has its place, but nothing brings me into hysterics better than a good story about human defecation or flatulence. I think it's because everyone, from the highest kings to the lowest pauper, have to hunker down and dispose of bodily waste. It's the great equalizer. I've always had fun with dumping. Back in high school, the big joke amongst my peers was to take a dump in one stall, and then shuffle over to another stall to wipe, thereby leaving a great mound of feces with no toilet paper, no doubt perplexing the janitors to no end.
"Don't kids nowadays know that they're supposed to wipe after doing something like that?"
Now that I'm in the work world, I continue to carry my immature view of dooty with me even into the professional restrooms of IBM. Never before have I been an audience to the deafening sound of co-workers who suffer from insane levels of air in the pipes. I try to keep my stall music to a minimum, slowly releasing my subs stealthily into the water below. Those sharing the stalls next to me, however, seem determined to make as much of a production as possible, tooting and rumbling their cheeks as if they're a shuttle lifting off from Cape Cannaveral. How folks can not be embarrassed by such audible displays is beyond me.
Now, I understand that all this is just the body's natural way of disposing of last night's pizza, but I've been trained since the age of three, when my father first had me pull his finger, that this basic humor is the standard by which all other humor is measured. Farts are funny. Even the word fart itself is funny.
It's universal humor, whether it's grown men changing a diaper in "Three Men and a Baby" or the hysterical laxative scene in "Dumb and Dumber," poop and fart noises are always good for an easy gag.
You may be unmoved by this entry or you may be relating. Either way, I don't give a crap.
I do not understand those who claim to be morning people, folks who leap from beds ready to attack a fresh new day like a horny canine attacking a shin. My body and mind both despise mornings, and the earlier the morning, the more surly they both become. Everything is just so much more difficult in the morning. It would be different, I suppose, if I slept standing up, but I don't. The first obstacle I'm confronted with upon awakening is the horizontal position I'm in that must be rectified. I shuffle over to the edge of the bed and allow gravity to pull my legs to the floor. I then heave myself into a sitting position and fidget with my eyes until the last of the eye boogers fall to the floor. I sit there for about three minutes, trying to force the haze of sleep and the dreams of large-breasted women from my mind. Then, slowly, I begin the routine of preparing for work. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want people to ask me how I am. I just want to wake up; on my own. There are people who actually go running in the morning. They're so stupid! Don't they know that the human body is at its least flexible the first thing in the morning? I do all my exercise in the late afternoon, when I have a full body of caffeine and can wrap my foot over my head. Also, any ailments you may be suffering are magnified by a factor of 10 in the morning. If you have a slight cough when you go to bed, you will awaken with enough bodily coughing spasms to bring up both lungs, your liver and your spleen. If you have sore muscles when you go to bed, you awaken thinking your four limbs were attacked by an axe wielding maniac sometime during the night. A sore throat becomes a constricting mass so painful, it feels as if you're trying to breathe through a barbed straw. It takes roughly three hours for the body to find a good equilibrium following a morning wake-up, but enough about that.
Nothing funny in the news today, unless you consider a building explosion in New York funny. I do not.
For possibly the 731st time, my Web-browser has prompted an annoying pop-up ad touting the benefits of "The amazing Web Cam." Now, I knew the very first time I saw this pop-up that I did not need, and I did not want, "The amazing Web Cam." Those in the marketing world, a world in which people wear socks on their heads and sing old Johnny Horton songs, maintain that pop-up ads are extremely effective and that they sell products. I find this incredibly hard to believe. The only thing effective about them is that they have added to my dexterity and finger clicking strength because I try to close the damned boxes before they can even fully load. And my resolve to not purchase "The amazing Web Cam" is strengthened each time I have to play a game of digital whack-a-mole. Seriously, do marketing experts really believe that, although I'm irritated the first 731 times, I'm bound to see the benefits the 732nd time?
"Ohhhhh, now I get it! The web cam actually is the answer to all my problems! I can't believe I didn't see how much I really needed a web cam the first 731 times I was confronted with the pop-up! What a fool I was! Thank God they were so persistent and kept prompting that ad or I would never have realized how important a web cam is to my daily existence. But, why am I sitting here typing this? I should be out buying a web cam. No, three web cams. You can never have enough web cams."
And, I have to ask, why would you really need a web cam in the first place? Sure, they would be a neat novelty for maybe 10 minutes or so, but suddenly I'd realize that I don't want the world to see me scratching myself every 15 minutes (and that's a conservative estimate). I live with two female roommates, but I simply don't have the urge to set up a bunch of web cams around the house in the hopes that they'll trot by in the buff. You see, that's when I become a disgusting pervert, and I have enough nicknames already without adding that to my list of designations. So, no, I don't want a web cam. I don't need a web cam. Now, if I could only stop the pop-ups.
The end of a weekend, or, more precisely, the end of a Minnesota weekend. I golfed three rounds on Saturday. The first round was played in rather cool weather, the second in decent weather, and the third was played under sunny skies; so sunny, in fact, I suffered a slightly sunburned head. Then, come Sunday, there's four inches of snow on the ground. Does this state make any freaking sense at all? The answer, of course, is no. Still, as I pondered why I continue to endure this wacky climate, I came up with a few reasons. First and foremost, I still enjoy being in close proximity with much of my family. That's hard for anyone to break free from. Second, I'm only four years into the workforce and I'm trying to build up the much valued "experience" that employers so value. Once I can start to pick and choose my journalism jobs, I'll probably be far more likely to cast a wide net and start looking around. Finally, the change in seasons does help to fully appreciate great weather. I love looking for the first robin of the year, watching the snow let loose its seasonal grip and surrender to the spring. Granted, it can be a major pain in the ass (see this weekend for why), but I think I can handle it for a couple more years.
