knox snooze

Succotash my Balzac, dipshiitake.

We should ban roids

I hate hemorrhoids. Especially the moment of discovery. Especially if that moment happens at work.

There you are, sitting in your industrial gray cubicle kingdom, when you begin to feel a little bowel discomfort. So you make your way to the strategic bathroom - you know, the only one in the entire building where you'll allow yourself a moment of dumpitude because it's usually cleanish and on a floor where almost no one ever goes. Come on, everyone has the pooping-on-the-clock bathroom.

Anyway, you get to the bathroom, find your happy place, take care of business, and right near the tail-end (entendre!) of your little ritual, you rake a Garden Weasel® across your freshly exposed subcutaneous tissue. That's what it feels like, at least. And you tell yourself you're not going to look - that you don't have to because you ALREADY KNOW YOUR ASS IS IN SHREDS. But, you do, and the sight of it only sends another wave of aftershock pains searing through your dookie-chute, and you want to cry and scream, but you can't because you're at work.

And if it's Monday, and you know you're going to have to squash those little crack tumors under your massive weight for 10 to 12 hours a day for the next four days, then you sort of start to wonder why it is you're not allowed to drink straight Bourbon and pop narcotics at work. You can't stay home - what are you going to do, call in sick with a bad case of assburger? No. You can't. It's not allowed. You. Must. Suffer.

Not that it's happened to me today. It's...um...this friend of mine. He's from Canada; you wouldn't know him.
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