Wednesday, 26 June 2013


So I’m done sugar coating this blog to save anyone’s feelings.  Right now I am at work with a wicked case of the shits.  I place full blame of this on my mother and the shake mix her friend told her she had to get while in the states.  Right now I am sitting on what feels like a lit curling iron up my ass.  Everyone at work has been very understanding however I don’t need everyone knowing the 15 minutes I just spent in the bathroom was me praying that I don’t shit myself while at work.  I think we have all been there.  I know if I got the shits at home I would be on the bowl reading happily and not focused on my now burning leather cheerio. 

I choose to take this as a sign that I should order the 20 dollar gel filled toilet seat from Regal.  That and my ability to read 1000% better while on the bowl.  Plus I just like to read on the toilet.  I sit there reading and peeing or pooping at will.  Yes, sometimes my legs fall asleep but when all is said and done I love it.  I’m like someone’s middle aged Dad.  Reading on the bowl is my deal.  My Grandfather (as was told to me) used to sit on the toilet with the newspaper on the floor in front of him.  Bent over he would leaf over the pages while taking his time releasing  the hounds.  Yes, I’ve actually been shitting while looking at Norman Earl and saying “Release the hounds!”  He loves it. 

Why am I telling you?  My loyal ten(‘s) of readers.  Why not?  We all do it and most of us manage not to shit themselves while at work.  With some of the stomach problems I’ve had over the years I could open a beer with my butt.  Honestly.  I’ve clenched my buttocks for miles without one drop of excitement leaking out.  As I get older my trust for both my bowels and my bladder is shaky at best.  You never know.  As women get older they pee when they laugh, sneeze, cough, bend over, lift something heavy and breath too deeply.  Amazing deal.  Not every woman mind you.  I of course am painting with a very broad (ha! Chicks are also called broads) stroke.  Still, it happens.  I wonder if Mrs. Duggar has a catheter at this point.  I mean so many bodies have pressed on her bladder I’d be shocked if she didn’t have a cotton towel under that skirt catching what falls out.  I bet she pee’s if hit with a good strong wind.  Gross.  How does Jim Bob even manage to get her pregnant at this point?  Don’t think about it.

Either way thank you my ten(s) of readers for helping me win my wrestling match with the extreme scooters today.  You are a great listener.

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