A prime example of this is my dad. As of late, he wears a tape deck strapped around his neck as he pollutes his city with his thoughts on the world's problems, and about how George Bush consults with him on dealing with the Middle East. Yeah, nice going, Dad. I got a kick out of his a $150-per-year ad in the local phone book for his spunk. He's an "independent sperm donor." Free donation, at that! I also dug his ad at the homeless shelter for free accommodation for young women to sleep in his bed... with him... naked. All for the sake of humanity, I guess.
I wonder what my dad's nickname is.
Anyways, I had a run-in in a mall bathroom this afternoon with a couple of the nutters who I usually see downtown. They're a middle-aged duo we call "The Pink Lady and Friend."
My story begins here.
Yesterday I ate at a Mexican restaurant with a buddy. I had a bean and beef burrito, while he had some wiser choice. Mine was really good. I ate it all. Good for me!
This morning, I woke up with mind-jarring discomfort of the gut. There was an evil little troll trying to rip out of my stomach. He was going to kill me. I kept trying to ignore his pokes by tossing around into various positions. But after a half hour, I realized it was hopeless... I wasn't gaining any comfort. In fact, I think moving around got my colon a rockin' and slid the shit towards the exit more quickly. I felt a fart sensation at my ass; but I decided to play it safe. I went to the throne.
There was no gas, only gut sludge. The mud flowed like chocolate ice cream out of the machine at Bonanza. Then it stopped. Then it flowed some more. Then it stopped. I went through this process from 6:30 to 10:00. In that window, I cleaned up a few times and walked around a few times as a war raged inside me. I thought I was going to die.
I had a list of errands I'd planned to accomplish before I went to work at the hospital, but I decided not to stray too far from home. In fact, I didn't wind up going into work at all.
One of my errands was at the mall. As I started walking through the halls, I felt the shooting pain start again. I did the Mario Brothers speedwalk and hunted down the bathroom. When I walked in, I was hit with a cloud of perfume. To my dismay, The Pink Lady and Friend were standing at the counter, with their make-up, perfume, and hair products strewn across the countertop.
Every time I've seen The Pink Lady, she's been wearing a circa-1983 fluorescent pink blazer with golden buttons, and black pants. Her face is always covered in hot pink blush, and her lips and adjacent areas inevitably sport a similar shade of lipstick. Her eyelashes look like fat, hairy caterpillars drowned in mascara, and her graying hair screams "Electroshock!" The Friend also has badly-done make-up, but it's not so eye-catching. She's just got thickly stenciled red eyebrows and blonde, bounceless helmet hair.
I went into one of the stalls to shit, but I got all Shameful and couldn't bring myself relief. From my stall, I could look through the crack and see The Pink Lady apply her hairspray and drone on to The Friend about the best way to apply the product and what would make The Friend look better and whatever else is left to talk about when one's brain is half eroded.
I peed, then quietly waited for a few minutes, hoping they'd leave. The conversation and spraying didn't seem to be close to halting, so I decided walk through the chemical cloud, wash up, and drive back home to take care of business. In my defense, I knew it would be explosive, loud, and smelly -- I believe if it was harder and quieter, I wouldn't have really cared about the smell so much and probably would have gone. Really, jury, really!
In total, I've been on the toilet for about two-and-a-half hours today, and I can still feel the troll rearranging my organs; so it's not even over for the night. If I don't post on PoopReport again, you know he got me.
Anyone else have a local celebrity icon who deserves acknowledgment?
-- Snapper [1]