THE ALIENS LIED . . .

The aliens lied to me.  They said that the anal probe would not interfere with my memory.  Some days I forget where I am going, and how to put on my underwear.

This morning I went into the bathroom and locked the door.  I forgot why I was there.  My bladder soon reminded me.

The other day I was talking to a friend.  Don't ask me what we were talking about.  Suddenly I shouted, "There are 366 days in a Jump Year!"  What does this have to do with bananas?

I hope my memory recovers soon.  I want to buy some gas for the car, I don't own, so I can drive to China and visit all the tea.  (Maybe I might buy some underwear.) 

WHAT IF . . .

What if all the tea in China was not in China?  Where would it be?

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What if all the toilets formed a union and refused to take any crap from us?

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What if The Mad Woman of Chaillot was not mad and only mildly irritated?

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What if all art galleries changed into fart galleries and artists became fartists?  (I know, this one stinks.)

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What if social climbers forgot their knee pads?  How far would they climb?

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What if no one listened to anyone else?

What?

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What if gold got old and could not be sold?  

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What if dancing replaced fighting in war? (And no weapons allowed.)

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What if I stopped blogging because I had gas and needed to go to a fart gallery?

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TOO MUCH INFORMATION (You've Been Warned)

I wish I could outsource my bowel movements -- pay someone in China or Mexico to have them for me.   Either outsource my bowel movements, or be able to have one humongous dump in the morning, and none the rest of the day.  If I could, then I would have no more washroom worries.

I like my three S's in the morning:  shit, shower and shave.  That way I am clean and fresh as I go forth, or fifth, seeking my fortune or fifthtune.   But my bowels are moody and rebellious.  "We don't wanna move now," they tell me before my shower.  "We don't feel like it."
"Aw c'mon guys,"  I say.  "We're beside a toilet now, and I can wash thoroughly afterwards."
"Nope,"  they say.  "We're not moving now.  We'll move when we feel like it."
Later in the day when I am no where near a washroom they proclaim, "Okay, we're ready to move now."
"Wait!  Wait!  I'm not near a washroom."
"That's your problem.  We're moving."

But sometimes my capricious bowels do move before my shower.  I think that all is well with the world after I leave home clean and fresh. And then an hour or so later, when I am no where near a washroom, my bowels ambush me.
"We're moving!"
"But you just moved an hour ago!" I say.
"Yup, and we're moving again."  

My grandfather used to say, "It may not look like much in the toilet bowl, but it looks like a helluva lot in your pants."  I agree.

So, there is no question about whether my bipolar bowels are working properly.  I just wish that they would listen to me instead of making their own decisions.   

On a positive note, my bowels have made me realize that I can't argue with anyone who says what I am full of.