Thursday, January 27, 2005
OPEN LETTER TO MY COLON
Dear Colon Powell,
I know you have been feeling tense lately.
Well, the reason I know is that you are very uptight during the day, and then you fall all to pieces the second we get home.
In fact, you start freaking out slightly even before we get home, when we are within sight of the house. This is not good for our clothes, or our mental well-being. Or the people who have to share our hallway. I live in fear of them walking out some day when you are having one of your panic attacks, taking one whiff, and falling down the stairs. Really, Colon. It is time for an intervention.
Haven't I always been there for you? Yes. Well, I need you to work with me here.
I need you to consider letting loose before we leave work. I know, you have been very considerate of our co-workers by not dropping any bombs in the communal shitter, but everybody does it. C'mon. Light a match. Actually, don't - then it just smells like shit on fire. But seriously, Mr. Powell. There is no reason why we should be keeling over two blocks from home, next to the 7-Eleven where the crazy guys hang out (and yell "Rock 'n Roll Hootchie Coo!" at us) while you're experiencing a nervous breakdown. In my pants.
Please, please, for the love of all that's holy - just go when you've gotta go. If this means staying at work until 7 PM to set you more at ease, so be it. If you need a relaxing massage or something, I'm sure that could be arranged also, from one of the guys at work.
No, not Orlando Bloom. Sheesh.
You're a colon, remember? Don't get all uppity. Or I'll start eating Korean food again. You'll be sorry.
Read my lips, bitch. No more shitfits.
Love,
Your Other End.
OPEN LETTER TO MY COLONI know you have been feeling tense lately.
Well, the reason I know is that you are very uptight during the day, and then you fall all to pieces the second we get home.
In fact, you start freaking out slightly even before we get home, when we are within sight of the house. This is not good for our clothes, or our mental well-being. Or the people who have to share our hallway. I live in fear of them walking out some day when you are having one of your panic attacks, taking one whiff, and falling down the stairs. Really, Colon. It is time for an intervention.
Haven't I always been there for you? Yes. Well, I need you to work with me here.
I need you to consider letting loose before we leave work. I know, you have been very considerate of our co-workers by not dropping any bombs in the communal shitter, but everybody does it. C'mon. Light a match. Actually, don't - then it just smells like shit on fire. But seriously, Mr. Powell. There is no reason why we should be keeling over two blocks from home, next to the 7-Eleven where the crazy guys hang out (and yell "Rock 'n Roll Hootchie Coo!" at us) while you're experiencing a nervous breakdown. In my pants.
Please, please, for the love of all that's holy - just go when you've gotta go. If this means staying at work until 7 PM to set you more at ease, so be it. If you need a relaxing massage or something, I'm sure that could be arranged also, from one of the guys at work.
No, not Orlando Bloom. Sheesh.
You're a colon, remember? Don't get all uppity. Or I'll start eating Korean food again. You'll be sorry.
Read my lips, bitch. No more shitfits.
Love,
Your Other End.
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