गुड मोर्निंग माय हिंदू फ्रिएंड्स

So, I found this little button that lets you convert your text to Hindi. Awesome! It almost makes me not want to end my life in the hopes that eternal suffering is a little better than earthly complacency. I have been thinking of this blog over the last few days and have decided that I need to rekindle the spark, the spirit, the martini glass of thirty weight that this blog and its predecessor had. In that need, I present a poop story.

I awoke this morning the same way I awoke yesterday morning, ten minutes before the alarm went off and a scorching pain running through my legs. I have been going to the gym for the last two days, subjecting myself to almost twenty five minutes of rigorous three mile an hour walking and superhuman five mile an hour bicycling while jamming out to the greatest band ever, QUEEN. I have to wait an extra thirty minutes after work for a bus that will get me to the gym. By the time I get to the gym, the only thing I want to do is go across the street to the bar, get hammered, and possibly try meth for the first time so I can lose my virginity in a shitty, shitty mensroom. But, I persevere, get my buttermilk ass firmly planted on the exercise bike, and in no time I am listening to the theme from Flash Gordon for the fourteenth time and my heart is ready to explode.

So, every morning (for the last two days anyway), I give a little stretch, pop all of my joints, then try not to cry as I make water while greeting the sunrise. Then, I shower, towel off, put on undergarments and black socks pulled up to my knees, and make the wife some sort of hot breakfast (no pun intended). This morning, I decided to shake things up a bit from the drab scrambled eggs and toast. I thought to myself, 'self, some sort of fusion is needed. What if I combined the scrambled eggs and toast... But how...?' Suddenly, a vision of baguettes and surrender flashed into my head. I dipped the bread into the scrambled egg mixture, then placed the concoction into a buttered pan. I called it French toast.

It paled in comparison to the curry that the wife made the night before. I pondered the comparison of breakfast to dinner foods and how they ranked against each other when they weren't even in the same category, let alone the same time of day. I worked via the scientific method, thinking maybe the nutritional content of the base ingredients decided the superiority of the meal. I thought of chick peas, coriander, curry, and the 5 grams of fiber in the whole wheat pita we used instead of nan bread.

Then, it hit me. I hadn't taken a shit in over two days. My body was holding all it could to keep from losing itself in my exercise routine. I had at least one ounce of hot sauce, jalapeno, or curry equivalent at every meal since then. I don't know about you, but if you eat the right amount of spicy, high fiber foods and wait a day or two, your colon actually screams "Tora! Tora! Tora!" in whale song. At least mine did.

I ran the two steps it took to get from kitchen stove to bathroom toilet, yanked down my boxers, and discovered what a champagne bottle feels during the decork and pour. After what seems an eternity of cascading hot liquids, my fourth eye closed itself to the world yet again, I wiped, and rose. What I beheld in the toilet took me by surprise. A single island of fetid curry, supported by a single beam of Brown that extended into the cave at the bottom of the bowl looked back at me. The crest of the shit volcano on this island looked as if it were mere inches to being even with the toilet seat. I knew this couldn't be true because I checked the back of my wiping hand and found no trace of excreta. As I flushed I said to my self, "Damn, this is why I want to be a lawyer."

One day, gentle reader, I will explain the dangerous and pointless reliance people have on facebook. Until then, no one is going to read this cacophonous creation.