Wednesday, July 27, 2005


Who smelt it, dealt it.
Who denied, supplied.

Excuses, excuses.
Why am I always trying to blame my own personal reek on others...? It's true. We have a stinky, stanky guard who sometimes uses my chair. The girl who was here before refused to let him sit in hers; she used to make him get his own chair. I thought that was rather degrading, so I don't give him a hard time. I just Lysol the hell out of everything when he is not looking.

This morning, I set right away to Lysoling and de-funkifying, but it still smelled like ass. Worse than ass, actual stool. Daaaaamn, that guy needs to forget about wiping and just shower, I thought, but the horrid green-tinged stench was damned persistent. I then commenced to mop the floor with a wad of moist towelettes when I realized...it was me. I had stepped in a dog bomb. More like a dog land mine or a dog IED. The remainder of which was clinging tenaciously to my shoe.

Oh, shit. It's shit.

My stepmother had a similar episode when she first brought my sister home from the hospital. Being quite the extravagant types, she and my father immediately decided to go out for a nice Mexican dinner. WITH A NEWBORN BABY. Brill.

They were about halfway through the meal when a curious odor emerged. Oh, how interesting! What culinary essence was this? Curry? Mole sauce...? No. Sniffing around, totally oblivious to what smelled like...could it be? Then, my stepmother, being a new mom, decided it was a good idea to stick her hand down my sister's diaper.

"Oh, shit. It's shit," she told my father, still incredulous.

I don't know what else she thought would be in there (considering her overly high opinion of my sister's talents, probably diamonds and orchids), but there you go.

For all you other rocket scientists out there, the old saying holds true:

If it smells like...looks like...tastes like...feels like...

It probably is.



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