VOICES BLOWING BUBBLES

Why do the voices in my head want to blow bubbles?

"For fun," we say.  "We love to play in all the empty space up here!"

But I thought you guys have fun telling me things.

"We do, and you have fun with the things we tell you.  But blowing bubbles is fun for fun's sake.  Sorry about the popping sound.  Perhaps the pops would not be so loud if there wasn't so much space up here for the sound to pop around."  

Can I ask you not to blow bubbles while I am reading?  

"Sure, you can ask us to do anything.  Whether we do it or not is another question."

Have my bowels influenced you?

"Ahhh!  A reference to your blog on May 11.  To answer your question, no.  Perhaps we have influenced your bowels.  We will never tell."

How about blowing bubbles while I am talking?  The popping noise won't be too distracting because I don't think when I am talking.

"Hmmm . . . Okay, we will only blow bubbles while you are talking. 
"Is there anything else you would like to ask us?"

Yeah.  Where do you guys get your ideas?

"From your bowels."  

I WISH . . .

I wish my bowels would leave a forwarding address whenever they move.

I wish I could live without eating.
 (Then I wouldn't have to worry about transient bowels.)

I wish my feet smelled like roses.

I wish semen tasted like chocolate, and caused women to lose weight.

I wish that politicians told the truth.

I wish that wars, murders, rapes, violence, and robberies always happen so that newspapers, radio and television stations will never go out of business.

I wish that God would tell us where He came from, and what church He attends.

I wish I knew what the last number was.

I wish I knew almost everything there is to know. 
(I don't want to know everything.  Knowing everything would not give me a reason to get out of bed.)

I wish that the buttons on new expensive shirts would not fall off.

I wish my wishes came true.

And as I have wished many times before, I wish that I did not have to make wishes.

UNSUCCESSFUL PICK-UP LINES

"You have such lovely eye balls."
 
"Hey sweetie, can I pick your nose?" 

"Would you like to come back to my place and look at my rash?"

"I love how your ear lobes hold your earrings."

"I have a gut feeling that we were meant to be together --  
  particularly in my bowels. 

"I would love to soak our dentures in the same glass!"

 "I love the way you sneeze on me."

"How quickly do you think I can memorize your telephone
  number?"

"Would you like to run barefoot through the park with me?  We 
  could watch the doggy caca ooze through our toes."

AM I GETTING OLD?

Am I getting old? I go out and then get lost finding my way home. I turn on the radio and can't hear what I am seeing. I get out-of-breath petting my neighbour's poodle. My bowel's move without leaving a forwarding address. Is there no hope?