Sun, Sand, Poop.
This weekend, so far, has been quite agreeable.
The weather has been rosy; my pallid tone of blue, mottled with fleshy pink striations and patches of outright translucency has been replaced with a healthy near-white thanks to the sun’s warming rays. I have had no bill collectors come to my door, wielding bats, wrenches, large frozen cod or any implements of torture whatsoever. In fact, I was told on Thursday by my accountant, who I will have sex with thanks to this windfall, that I will be receiving a near eight-thousand dollar claim. Butter up your pock-marked back end, Angelo; you deserve the kind of love only I, a jolly claimant, can give.
A friend has lent me a car as I await mine from the garage. So, I am mobile. The engine I am restoring will be done soon, and I will have my 1972 Charger back within a week or so. It doesn’t end there, I have found an online business that actually sells fiberglass replicas of 72 charger parts… and they have both fenders… for a good price. They are a killer on eBay, even in poor shape. Hell, a box of corroded metal filings, congealed into what can only be described as a ‘rust nugget’ is often bartered on eBay as ‘a 1972 Dodge Charger fender. In need of TLC, but still workable’. I’m not about to plunk down 1000 bucks on a fender only to be told the pitting and rust is out of control, that I was better off with plywood, rusty nails and three rolls of duct tape. So, happy the man, I got me new fenders.
Also, this weekend, I actually had some leisure time and did laundry, which is not only momentous, but outright miraculous. No longer do my pantaloons stand on their own. Now, I have to actually make the effort to search for my underpants, gone are the days of merely following the malignant stench in order to locate a near-usable pair. Oh, and business is going all right. Looks like I’ll be doing some cool dinosaur stuff again, and that makes me happier than Steven Harper lying in a vat of brownie batter.
…And lastly, since you asked, my bowel movements are smooth and enviable, with a consistency both material and timely that one hopes to set standards for within the breadth and scope of their lives. Nothing else matters when you cannot crap properly, time stands painfully still whilst pulling at the seat front as you prepare to pass what feels like a deck chair, unfolded, from a hole no larger than an eye socket. Because, when you boil it down (no mental images, please), it’s all about the poop. Nothing says 'bad day' like a ceramic dish of bloody offal and cold sweat.
So, good day all 'round.
The weather has been rosy; my pallid tone of blue, mottled with fleshy pink striations and patches of outright translucency has been replaced with a healthy near-white thanks to the sun’s warming rays. I have had no bill collectors come to my door, wielding bats, wrenches, large frozen cod or any implements of torture whatsoever. In fact, I was told on Thursday by my accountant, who I will have sex with thanks to this windfall, that I will be receiving a near eight-thousand dollar claim. Butter up your pock-marked back end, Angelo; you deserve the kind of love only I, a jolly claimant, can give.
A friend has lent me a car as I await mine from the garage. So, I am mobile. The engine I am restoring will be done soon, and I will have my 1972 Charger back within a week or so. It doesn’t end there, I have found an online business that actually sells fiberglass replicas of 72 charger parts… and they have both fenders… for a good price. They are a killer on eBay, even in poor shape. Hell, a box of corroded metal filings, congealed into what can only be described as a ‘rust nugget’ is often bartered on eBay as ‘a 1972 Dodge Charger fender. In need of TLC, but still workable’. I’m not about to plunk down 1000 bucks on a fender only to be told the pitting and rust is out of control, that I was better off with plywood, rusty nails and three rolls of duct tape. So, happy the man, I got me new fenders.
Also, this weekend, I actually had some leisure time and did laundry, which is not only momentous, but outright miraculous. No longer do my pantaloons stand on their own. Now, I have to actually make the effort to search for my underpants, gone are the days of merely following the malignant stench in order to locate a near-usable pair. Oh, and business is going all right. Looks like I’ll be doing some cool dinosaur stuff again, and that makes me happier than Steven Harper lying in a vat of brownie batter.
…And lastly, since you asked, my bowel movements are smooth and enviable, with a consistency both material and timely that one hopes to set standards for within the breadth and scope of their lives. Nothing else matters when you cannot crap properly, time stands painfully still whilst pulling at the seat front as you prepare to pass what feels like a deck chair, unfolded, from a hole no larger than an eye socket. Because, when you boil it down (no mental images, please), it’s all about the poop. Nothing says 'bad day' like a ceramic dish of bloody offal and cold sweat.
So, good day all 'round.
posted by Blog Monkey at 5:52 p.m.
5 Comments:
Duhbya is bad.
Ahmedinedjad is too.
But they both short value
Taking a bad poo.
such poetry.
Glad you had a good weekend and sorry about your cosmic testicle slapping. Life is like a pendulum... which is why God invented beer and week, I think anyway.
Hope you feel better and thanks for making me laugh.
i make me laugh, too. i think it's the paunch and baldness that initiate the mirth...
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