I’ve gotta pee. I’ll be right back.
Ok, I’m back. I had two iced teas for lunch and I’ve been sitting at my desk thinking I should go and relieve myself for like an hour. I’m worried that all this pee-holding-in is going to make me an incontinent old person. Keep your fingers crossed that that doesn’t happen. I’m not sure adult diapers will fit in my designer jeans.
Anyway, lots has gone on here in since we last spoke. The Somali pirates decided to give up Capt. Phillips in exchange for a sweet book and movie deal, I got mistaken for a “real person” by someone from the FOX News team and I ate an entire tub of hummus in one sitting. Mostly what has gone on though is that my friends have stopped talking to me because I wrote about my b-hole. I understand that bodily functions are a sensitive topic, but they’re nothing to be embarrassed about. Like the book says, everybody poops. I think that there are way more embarrassing things, like having to tell your spouse you got busted for kiddie porn and you’re gonna be spending the next decade in the klink. Or like admitting to an employer that you once starred on the reality TV show “Temptation Island” and cheated on your sweetie of many years with one of the other contestants just because the producers wanted to “spice things up a bit.” Or like being Lauren Ober. What I’m saying is, don’t judge people for things they can’t control. Like their bowels.
Right, so now that we’ve moved beyond the behind, we can get on to more pressing issues like how much I love everybody. This has nothing to do with the fact that I have a birthday coming up and I’m angling for some awesome prezzies like the Inside-the-Egg Electric Egg Scrambler, the Rock ‘n Roll Stepper and the Emjoi Light Caress Epilator. It has everything to do with the fact that sometimes you just need to say thanks:
Dear boy sitting next to me at the Ani DiFranco show last night,
Thank you for not crying or singing along to every Ani song. I know it might have been weird when I asked to to refrain from both before the show started. But please understand there is a reason for this. Every Ani show I have seen- and as I’m a member of the homosexual persuasion, of course I’ve seen many- I have had the misfortune of sitting next to either a weeper, a wailer or a belter. Because I’m passive aggressive, I’ve never been able to tell these people to pipe down. I shift in my seat and shoot daggers out of my eyeballs in the hopes that they’ll catch me and stop their boo-hooing or their sing-along. It never works.
So I figured this time I would nip the problem in the bud and ask you to can it even before the show began. Thank you for obliging. And thank you for putting up with my spastic dancing.
Yours in jammin’ out with your clam out,
Dear person who cleaned my desk at the Free Press last night,
Thank you so much for dusting my awesome Dell computer. I realize that it hasn’t been cleaned since the inmates at Angola prison assembled it 10 years ago. I guess my desk is somewhat of a disgrace. There’s a photo of my brother and me in makeshift turbans, a bobblehead doll from the Talledega Superspeedway and a pin with a photo of the King of Thailand, Bhumibol Adulyadej (he’s a total looker) on it, all of which have about six inches of industrial-strength volatile dust on them. I’m sorry, but I’ve been distracted from cleaning by the lint in my navel and the wax in my ears. Mea maxima culpa.
But you have made my filthstation a little more presentable and for that I thank you. I just have one tiny request. The next time you take your feather duster to my little corner office, please don’t knock down all my knick-knacks, my gewgaws, my bric-a-brac. Please see photo below:
This is my computer after you wreaked your havoc and toppled my knick-knacks.
Right, so if you can just remove my toys, dust and then put them back EXACTLY where you found them, that’d be great thanks. By the way, if you even think about stealing my Jesus pencil topper or my airplane made from Smarties, Lifesavers and a stick of Big Red, I will windmill your ass so hard you’ll be pooping into a bag.
Yours in cheap crap,
Dear bike saddle,
Thank you for rendering me sterile. Thank you for making it hurt to pee. Thank you for making me never want to have the S-E-X again.
Yours in open wounds,
ps- things that rhyme with dude- viscissitude, latitude, decrepitude