If things don't improve for my poor, malfunctioning ass, today's entry may just be my SG swan song. I suppose I should say my good-byes now, for if I have another BM like the last one I am surely going to die.
M.F., my wife, has been on a trip to visit an old friend from college, and I have been fending for myself and generally eating whatever I felt like eating. Somewhere during my gastronomic adventures, I must have ingested a mixture of shotgun shot, muriatic acid, sulfur, gunpowder, gasoline, and orange juice, for that appears to be what blew my toilet into the basement this morning.
To make matters worse, I may afterward have used too much Preparation H Cooling Gel to alleviate the resultant sub-equatorial infernal fires of anguish, for now I feel a strange tightness, a pulling if you will, from my backside whenever I bend. I also can no longer locate my anus. There seems to be just a small, hard, slightly crenellated pip between my tailbone and testes from which nothing will issue except a piercing, high-pitched whistle. When I thump it gently with a fingernail, it makes a ringing sound similar to the sound of a silver coin dropped into a glass bowl.
As an emergency measure, I'm going to go eat a whole panful of mega-metamucil brownies, but I have to say: the prognosis does not look good {WARNING: horrible, horrible picture and article through this link; no one, not even Sicily -- who's as wrong, just wrong, a woman as you'll ever meet -- should click that link. Drop me from your friends list before it's too late}.
So, should I not return: Farewell, all! I have loved you all more than you could ... uhm ... than you could ... ow! ... I have ... oh, oh! ... uhm, I have to go to the bathroom! Sweet Jesus Aitch-Fucking Tap-Dancing ... Oh, holy shit!
*in Elvis voice
Uh...say there, Colonel. No more ah them fried bananer sanwhiches now, Ah thinkah just crapped my pants.
M.F., my wife, has been on a trip to visit an old friend from college, and I have been fending for myself and generally eating whatever I felt like eating. Somewhere during my gastronomic adventures, I must have ingested a mixture of shotgun shot, muriatic acid, sulfur, gunpowder, gasoline, and orange juice, for that appears to be what blew my toilet into the basement this morning.
To make matters worse, I may afterward have used too much Preparation H Cooling Gel to alleviate the resultant sub-equatorial infernal fires of anguish, for now I feel a strange tightness, a pulling if you will, from my backside whenever I bend. I also can no longer locate my anus. There seems to be just a small, hard, slightly crenellated pip between my tailbone and testes from which nothing will issue except a piercing, high-pitched whistle. When I thump it gently with a fingernail, it makes a ringing sound similar to the sound of a silver coin dropped into a glass bowl.
As an emergency measure, I'm going to go eat a whole panful of mega-metamucil brownies, but I have to say: the prognosis does not look good {WARNING: horrible, horrible picture and article through this link; no one, not even Sicily -- who's as wrong, just wrong, a woman as you'll ever meet -- should click that link. Drop me from your friends list before it's too late}.
So, should I not return: Farewell, all! I have loved you all more than you could ... uhm ... than you could ... ow! ... I have ... oh, oh! ... uhm, I have to go to the bathroom! Sweet Jesus Aitch-Fucking Tap-Dancing ... Oh, holy shit!
*in Elvis voice
Uh...say there, Colonel. No more ah them fried bananer sanwhiches now, Ah thinkah just crapped my pants.
VIEW 10 of 10 COMMENTS
When does your wife get back?... so your bowels can start functioning normally again...