Functionally ReTodded

Tomorrow’s my birthday. There’s planning and cooking to do.

I will have something tomorrow.

Eff you Cashion.

FRT

Today was an uneventful day.

I didn’t get my balls wet whilst taking a dump.

No kids brained me with the popcorn roller thingy.

I didn’t shart in the car on the way to work.

No one cut me off at a drive thru.

Charter didn’t fuck up and kill my internet for the day.

I didn’t fall off the sidewalk and into traffic.

No governor (that I’m aware of) left for four days to bang someone on another continent.

No dead pedophiles came back from the dead.

And I did not die while playing volleyball or drown while swimming after said activity.

All in all, a decent day.

Tomorrow will be filled with exciting things like laundry folding, kid room cleaning, yard work, etc.

Stand back everybody.  I think I’m getting a boner.

Sincerely,

FRT

p.s. My birthday is Friday.  Would it fucking kill you to get me a present?  Hoss, you just need to come over and hang out.  Everybody else, gift me.

Seriously?  When is this ridiculousness gonna stop?

A US governor disappears, WITH NO TRANSFER OF POWER IN PLACE, to go to South America to screw the girlfriend that isn’t his wife, and I have to hear about it being a "love story," and yet he’s "working on falling back in love with his wife," and all the while his wife’s spouting bible verses like a retarded Christian fortune cookie machine.

And now, just a few scant days later, it’s come to light that he "crossed lines" with other women, but "never had sex with them."

Congratulations you fucking narcissistic ass.  You’re just another in a long line of shit bags who think that their access to money and power affords them the luxury of judging from their ivory tower while not living by the rules by which the rest of us are forced to live.

I’m sure your constituents are thrilled that your trip to see your girlfriend in New York was paid for in cash so no state funds were used.

Whew.  What a relief.

It’s so great to be able to say that you "never crossed the ultimate line" with anyone but the main woman that wasn’t your wife.

Awesome.  So I guess if you’re a governor on a trip to where the fuck ever, getting two girls to simultaneously blow you isn’t crossing "the ultimate line?" or is it simply a hand shandy.  Is that okay?

Not only should South Cackalackeans remove this cock from office, but they should run him out of the state on a rail.

At some point, someone has to tell these guys enough is enough.

As you my readers may be aware, I am not fond of the public restroom.  At least for doing work whilst sitting.  As a matter of fact, I can’t do it. Like in a restaurant or gas station or an airport.

Will.  Not.  Do.  It.

I have trained myself to be able to do that sort of thing at the office if absolutely necessary, although I prefer to do it at home.

That training was difficult and took a great deal of bravery on my part, but I finally pushed past my fears enough to go number two at my office.

But that may have ended today.

I decided that it couldn’t wait until I got home, so I did the walk of shame and took up my usual seat in the handi-capable stall.  And I commenced.

Then I did what any human being with an ounce of compassion would do after the initial effort:

The courtesy flush.

So I’m sitting there, having courteously flushed and I’m trying to figure out how to re-add brickbreaker to my temporary replacement  Blackberry.

Then, way back in the storage department of my brain, a little message fires across the synapses.  It says "Hmmm…that’s funny.  My balls are cold."

Then it says more assertively, "Hey…why are my balls cold?"

And so, having worked thru the first two stages of the command system, the message was brought to the front of the brain where I said "Thanks guys.  I’ll look into it."

Which I did.

I looked down between my thighs into the bowl, and see that the water level is high.

Very high.

So high that my balls are floating / hanging in it.

And then my lizard brain screams "STAND UP!!!  THERE’S POO IN THAT THERE WATER!!!  YOUR BALLS ARE FLOATING IN POO WATER!!"

So there I am, hovering as you girls talk about, and realizing this is a pretty serious issue considering I’m not done yet.  I also realize that I can’t hover like this forever as my delicate thighs haven’t been trained for this.

There were several options to consider:

1) Shuffle out of my stall and into the other one, half crouching, and finishing there.
Pros:  I’d be done shortly
Cons:  I’d have to strip down from the waist down to avoid making a bombing run halfway there in my own pants or on my own shoes.

2) Try flushing again.
Pros:  Possibly it’s a little clog and that little jump start will make everything work again.
Cons:  If the water didn’t go away and further, rose again, I’d be standing in and covered in my own filth-riddled toilet water.

And just then, as my thighs were about to give out and before I could come up with another option, a small noise happened and the water all drained away.

I exhaled, finished, tidied up, got all my clothes back in the proper places, hit flush, and bolted out of the stall, hoping against hope to wash my hands and flee before the toilet decided to overflow again.

And I nearly ran smack into another dood from over in Global Marketing.

That made for an awkward non-explanation, I assure you.

Today, thanks to snarking by my interweb friend Avitable, I spent all of 11 seconds adding the "subscribe to comments" plugin to my blog.  That allows the four of you that do comment to get notified when someone else craps on me.  Should be good times.

If any of you have any other suggestions for add-ons or plugins, I’m all ears.

Oh, and if you have any theme suggestions for me, send those too.  I’m tired of this one now too and I’m ready for something a little cooler that doesn’t involve me doing a whole lot of learnin’.

I was sad to hear of the passing of annoying pitchman Billy Mays this morning.  At least way sadder than I was to hear of the death of Michael Jackson.

Mays was found in his home.  He was 50 years old.

I’ll be less than shocked to find out that he died as a result of toxic shock poisoning that he got from all that black hair and beard dye.

Oh, and about Governor do and I say not do as I do from South Cackalackee, let me say this.

You fucked up.  Granted, it was a series of hookers in Vegas or a fat intern in your office, but whether you love this woman or not, you’re married.

That said, Mrs. Governor Sandford, shut the fuck up.  Just because they put a microphone in front of your pie hole doesn’t mean you have to spit out crafted responses.  Sometimes, a no-comment would be better than your holier than thou, scripture laden bullet pointed speeches.  This will slowly fall on you too.  If you knew five months ago that it’d gone on for over a year and he’d known her for eight, then what the hell are you doing still with him?  You’re not some bon bon eating Oprah watching house frau.  You were a big Wall Street VP and you are the money in the family and clearly the brains.

Move along, take the boys with you and run for Governor yourself.  You could win and possibly compete for your husband’s ultimate prize, the presidency.  But not if you keep talking down to us like you are now, as though you’re a Sunday School teacher for six year olds.